A Case of Need
by santaflash
Summary: Those closest to Sherlock know the dangers of his boredom. Is there a possible solution that might keep him out of trouble until the next case? Or will Sherlock merely drowned, as it were, in his desperate attempts to dull his extremely active mind? Not Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_John Watson's Blog_  
><em>May 5, 2011<em>

_Finally, I find myself adjusting to life away from the war. I was initially concerned by my flatmate, but have managed to remain sane._

_Sherlock is a unique model of a human being. Highly intelligent and resourceful, one would imagine him to be the perfect specimen of what we all strive to be. Yet, I find him seriously lacking in areas that the average person would take for granted. Social graces and tack seem out of his grasp, though purposefully so. I do believe he finds it a complete waste of time to be pleasant to anyone. _

_As I stated, I managed to remain sane, despite these idiosyncrasies. However, I am always nervous when introducing a friend, correction, anyone, to him. On this particular day, I had the unpleasant opportunity of doing just that._

_I had met Emma through a mutual friend. We had met at a local coffee shop. I believe my friend had every intention of setting us up for a future date. After the introductions, she quickly excused herself, leaving me to sit uncomfortably across the table from Emma, not knowing what to say._

_Emma was in her early thirties, with green eyes, brown hair. She was a rather average looking woman on first glance. She didn't wear much makeup, which was nice. Women who wear a lot of make up tend to look like...well...nevermind. She was a physician, like I, though at the time I was not aware of her exact specialty. _

_I struggled to keep the conversation alive. Emma offered very little help, responding with one word answers or short sentences. She did not appear to be rude, rather possibly shy or nervous. Of course, at that moment Sherlock, burst into the shop, grabbing a chair from another table. He would have sat between us, if it hadn't been for the table. _

* * *

><p>"John! I will be in need of your assistance tonight," Sherlock fired off quickly, with his usual level of energy. Sherlock had entered the coffee shop like a whirlwind. He was wearing his usual Belstaff Milford coat, unbuttoned and opened loosely. Outside, it was cold enough for the coat, but not so much so that it required the coat to be buttoned closed. Around the collar of the coat and down both sides was a rich blue scarf. Underneath his coat, he sported his customary dark suit and tie.<p>

Emma sat, staring at Sherlock in confusion, eyebrow raised. John looked back and forth between them. "I...uh..." John stuttered, unsure if he should question Sherlock on why he required assistance, or if he should offer introductions.

Sherlock's impatience taking the better of him, his head whipped around and he gave Emma a once over. His observations made, he extended a hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Emma Herrington," she replied, though hesitant to shake his hand. She stared at his face for a while, seemingly analysing it. John assumed it was due to Sherlock's upfront attitude, which often times put people off making them uncomfortable or generally annoyed.

He nodded. "A bit far from home," he stated.

"Pardon?" Emma raised an eyebrow, confusion set in her eyes. She glanced over at John, who had shifted uncomfortably in his seat. John frowned. _He's doing it again._

"You. Far from home," Sherlock stated slowly, the impatience quite evident in his voice. "Harrogate, if I'm not mistaken." Emma was about to respond, but was stopped when Sherlock held up his hand, palm facing her. "But that is merely where you are from _now_. New Zealand, though there is a hint of something..." he mused to himself. Her eyes widened as he spoke. Opening her mouth, she could not find the words to respond. Her face showed a look of what John thought was amazement.

"Sherlock..." John said in warning.

"What?" Sherlock snipped. Rolling his eyes, he continued, "Oh yes, right. Not very specific, is it? Alright then, you were born in Auckland, New Zealand, though you came over to England very young, perhaps two or three years of age. You are part of a middle class family, as you obviously dress the part. Unlike your family, you are _slightly _more educated and practice as a physician in London, where you currently reside. She is currently single, by the way, John."

Emma looked from Sherlock to John, who was doing his best to avoid eye contact at all cost. What his heart greatly desired was to be able to slip away from the uncomfortable moment. Emma's eyes returned to Sherlock, but the confused look had disappeared. It had been replaced by a cold stare. John stole a glance and groaned within. Though he had not had high hopes of securing a future date, Sherlock had just ensured that there would be no hope whatsoever.

"How..." she asked quietly.

Sherlock proceeded to point out the clothes she wore, though of good quality, were not particularly expensive, concluding that she knew the value of money. Her hands, though slender and smooth, showed slight calluses indicating she sometimes did manual labour. He had known of her occupation, as John had previously mentioned it.As for her birthplace, though masked by the Harrogate, New Yorkshire dialect, a subtle dialect from Auckland could be heard by the trained ear.

While Sherlock spoke, John noted Emma's fingers had tightened over the pair of gloves she held in her hand. She was clearly not happy. "You're rather confident in your observations and deductions." she hinted at a smirk. "Surely you've been wrong from time to time."

"Never." Sherlock replied. He opened his mouth to continued when John cleared his throat, succeeding at interrupting Sherlock's train of thought.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at John. "You needed me for what, tonight?" John asked.

"Ah yes!" Sherlock proceeded to explain to John his plans for that evening. To Sherlock, Emma might has well have disappeared. His focus on explaining a case to John, she was now nearly invisible to him. He had made his observations of Emma and no longer found her of interest.

While listening to Sherlock, John glanced over at Emma, concern in his eyes. He was truly apologetic for his friend's behaviour. She was watching Sherlock, her eyes running over his face. At first, John was fearful that there might be some attraction.

As if sensing John's concern, she looked at him, gave a flash of a smile and began to stand. John stood as well, causing Sherlock to look back at Emma and slowly rise with a frustrated sigh. He always seemed put off by common courtesies.

Excusing himself from Sherlock, John escorted Emma outside the coffee shop. "I apologise for my friend's behaviour. I had no idea he would find me here." Actually, that was not entirely true. Sherlock seemed to know where he was nearly all of the time. He also seemed to show up when he was least expected or wanted.

Emma gave a small smile, yet her eyes looked back in Sherlock's direction. A flash of annoyance crossed her face. "Thank you. Perhaps we could try this again another time?" She looked back at John, a twinkle in her eyes.

John flashed a big smile. "Really? I mean...you aren't to...that is...yes! That would be lovely." he glanced back to ensure that Sherlock had remained at the table. "How about dinner tonight?"

Emma continued to look through the windows of the shop at Sherlock. "I believe you already have plans." her face was devoid of emotion, making it difficult for John to read.

John followed her gaze. "Right." he sighed, thinking for a moment. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." she looked back at him and forced a smiled. Taking a small piece of paper from her bag, she wrote her mobile phone number down, handed it to John, then turned and walked away.

"Tomorrow then." John called out, giving a futile wave before returning to Sherlock in the coffee shop. Slumping down in his chair, John stared at his partially finished cup of coffee.

"Can you?" Sherlock asked. Receiving no response, he sighed dramatically. "You'll see her tomorrow. Though I can't imagine why you would want to."

John looked up. He was annoyed by Sherlock's interruption. Though he was not entirely attracted to Emma, it would have been nice to just have a conversation with a female. "I'll be there." he said, rather shortly.

Sherlock ignored the tone, but took the answer. Standing up quickly, he rushed back out onto the street and to his next destination.

* * *

><p><em>John Watson's Blog<em>  
><em>May 17, 2011<em>

_I still find myself amazed several weeks later. Despite the rocky start and the introduction to Sherlock, if one could call it that, Emma has still remained willing and interested in going out with me. We have gone out only for coffee at this point, but I'm hoping to take her on a more official date._

_In the meantime, Sherlock has become increasingly...irritating. Honestly, what is the big deal of being bored? For me, I relish the time when I can simply sit and relax. Of course, being Sherlock's flatmate means I rarely have the opportunity to relax. _

_So, he's bored. So what, right? Wrong. Sherlock is mental when he's bored. He requires constant brain stimulation or he'll simply lose his mind. He seems to be escalating, as I found a bottle of medication in the flat that was not prescribed to him. Is he actually self-medicating? I find that hard to believe, considering how intelligent he appears to be. I will continue to monitor him. If he continues, I just might have to contact his brother for additional help._

_I have to run off now, or I'll be late meeting Emma. Wish me luck!_

**_Comment_**

_Honestly, John, several weeks later? Clearly your math skills are lacking. It has been 13 days. That would be less than 2 weeks. _

_I'm mental? Of course I'm bored! I have no case, at least no interesting case. Haven't I explained this already? _

_Good luck with Emma. I give it one month, tops._

_SH_

* * *

><p>Several weeks had passed. John had made every effort to go out with Emma. He was not entirely sure if his involvement with her was his personal desire or more to spite his friend in the hopes of proving him wrong. More often than not, she had declined his offer, always citing that it was due to work and not him. During those times, Sherlock seemed to be contacted often, though those cases never too much time for him to solve.<p>

John was beginning to doubt Emma's reasons for declining when he was pleasantly surprised by her acceptance of a dinner date. He had found that absence from her had peaked his interest. Initially, he had not been immediately attracted to her; however, over the course of time and their few dates, he found himself longing to see her.

While dressing, John heard a dramatic groan from the other room. His shoulder's immediately tensed at the sound. _Not again, not this time._ Another loud sigh sounded from the other room.

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted.

Placing his hands on the edges of the sink, John slouched his shoulders and hung his head. At that moment, it felt as if the weight of the world had been placed on his back. That weight was Sherlock. Before he could stop himself, John called out, "Are you alright?" _Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!_ he shouted in his mind while repeatedly punching a nearby folded towel.

"If I was alright, would I be in this state?" Sherlock called back.

John rolled his eyes and looked up at the mirror in front of him, gritting his teeth. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes for a moment. He needed to relax and stay that way for the dinner with Emma. Finishing up quickly, he headed out to the other room. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his arm crossed lazily over his eyes, his breathing slow and steady.

John leaned against the frame of the door, watching his flatmate. He was afraid to ask what was wrong, for fear it would open up into something more time consuming. Having known Sherlock for a time, he did not need to ask. Boredom. Swallowing the question down, he walked towards the desk to retrieve his wallet.

_He will not ruin this for me, not again, _John thought.

Sherlock remained lying on the sofa, arm over his face, his breathing slow and steady. Next to him, on the table, was a glass of water and a few medicine bottles. John picked up one bottle after the other, reading the labels.

John frowned. "What the hell is this?" He asked, grabbing the medication. "Where did you get these? Does Mycroft know about this?" He looked at Sherlock, who raised his arm and rolled his eyes. "You know what? Never mind. You don't _need_ these," he took the bottles and shoved them into his coat pocket.

Sherlock gave a ghost of a smile, looking at him through half closed lids. "I'm fine, John," he waved a hand lazily in the air, then turned onto his side, facing away from him.

John stood for a moment, debating whether or not it would be a good idea to leave him. It was obvious Sherlock was trying to self-medicate in an attempt to manage his boredom. The method was dangerous and could very likely kill him. John was beginning to understand that Sherlock's mind was so active, the best thing for him was a case, a puzzle to solve. He was like an addict going through withdrawal until the next case, desperately wanting to dull his mind in the lull. He had spoken to Emma, but she had no suggestions on how to deal with the problem.

"Going somewhere?" Sherlock asked, though he remained curled up, facing the sofa cushions.

"_Going somewhere?" _John replied incredulously. "Emma. I'm going to have dinner with Emma." he said hotly, not bothering to look at his friend. "You _know_ that."

"Do I?" Sherlock responded with an air of innocence as he moved to take a glance at John. "Emma...Emma..." he repeated quietly while looking up at the ceiling, as if trying to recall. "Ah yes, the Auckland girl." Then he added in a mumble, "I'm surprised you're still seeing her."

"Yes, Emma. I'm still seeing-" John stopped, realising what Sherlock had said. "Now what do you mean by that? Of course I'm still seeing her," he snapped.

"Have a good time." Sherlock gave a quick patronizing smile.

John stood there, coat on, glaring down at Sherlock. His flippant attitude was so grating at times. "Right. Well then, good night," John said in a huff.

"One thing, though," Sherlock began, causing John's shoulders to tense again.

John turned around to face him. "No. Not one thing more. I'm going out. I shall see you in the morning."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Now that _is _rather confident. _Morning._" John groaned and growled, hoping Sherlock would understand the clues. If he did, he merely ignored them. "I don't believe you are a right match. She's too..._dull_."

John stared at him a moment. "Are you actually trying to insult me or her, right before my date?" Then he raised a hand to stop Sherlock from answering. "You know what? Never mind. I'm going. Good night."

"Good night," Sherlock called out, though the tone did not express the sentiment.

John stormed out of the building, furious at Sherlock. While walking to meet Emma at her building, John gave Mycroft a ring to discuss the seriousness of the situation.

"Hello, Mycroft? It's John," he began.

"Yes, I'm aware of who you are. Hello, Dr. Watson," Mycroft answered.

John took in a breath to gather up the courage. He was less comfortable with Mycroft than his brother. "Look, sorry to bother you. It's about Sherlock." he paused.

"Of course it is about my brother. And if you were sorry, you would not have called. What has he done _this _time?" Mycroft asked with a quiet sigh.

"I, uh, yes well, I am sorry just the same. I...I found Sherlock next to several medications. I believe he's self-medicating. Some of the drugs are habit forming and could prove dangerous, even fatal." John glanced around to gather his bearings. He still had a few more minutes before arriving at Emma's address.

"Obviously he _is_ self-medicating. Out of boredom, no doubt. Keep an eye on him, Dr. Watson. You can remove what medication you'd like, but he will find a way to obtain more." Mycroft stated, no emotion in his voice.

_He almost sounds...bored._ John rolled his eyes. _Is no one in this family normal? _"Right, well, what else should I do?"

Mycroft paused for a long moment, causing John to glance at his phone to ensure they had not been disconnected. Finally, he said, "Find him a case. He needs something to keep his mind occupied."

"T-that's it? Emma thought you might know- " John asked, hoping there was more.

"Emma?" Mycroft interrupted.

"Y-yes, Emma, my girlfriend for over a month." John answered. "Sherlock must have mentioned her to you. Brown hair, green eyes, a physician. I met her through a mutual friend." Then mumbled, "What am I saying? You two never talk."

"Hmmm. Emma, was it?" Mycroft paused in thought, then continued. "I never thought her to be your type," he mused. "At least, I never considered you _her type_. Interesting."

"I-" John again found himself insulted.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft interrupted with a sighed. "You _know_ Sherlock. A challenge, a puzzle, _that_ is what he needs."

"Right." John answered, feeling hopeless.

"Goodbye, Dr. Watson." A faint click could be heard as Mycroft hung up.

John's pace slowed as he thought of the brief, and odd, conversation with Mycroft. _Where am I going to find a case?_

Looking up at his surroundings, John realised he was nearly at Emma's place. Rounding the corner, he stopped suddenly. Remaining in the dark shadows, he watched as a tall hooded figure seemed to be involved in a heated discussion with Emma. He assumed, based on the body shape, that the figure was that of a man. What he found odd was, though the man was clearly upset, Emma remained perfectly still. She seemed to watch him, without emotion, detached.

The man moved closer to her, in what John thought was a threatening manner. John quickly moved out into the lamp light, heading directly for Emma. The man turned, possibly seeing John's movements out of the corner of his eye. Turning back to Emma, he leaned in close to her, then turned quickly and ran off.

John jogged over to Emma. "Are you alright?" He asked, now more concerned for her safety.

Emma gave a nod, but said nothing to explain what had happened.

Sensing that she might not be comfortable discussing the man that had just left, John nodded, "Good. Well, shall we?" He offered her the crock of his arm, but she did not appear to see it, walking past him. "Right," he gave a slight frown, his anger with Sherlock still festering. _Not the best start to the date._ He did a quick jog to catch up.

* * *

><p>John stared at the menu. The waiter had approached the table three times already and still, John had been unable to decide. He was fuming. The question was whether he was angry at Sherlock in general, or that Sherlock was right. <em>Was she dull?<em>

John looked over the menu at Emma. She sat, elbows on the table, finger twirling a long strand of hair as she stared blankly out the window of the restaurant. Outside, it was dark, making it difficult to see anything at all. Yet, there she sat, staring. The weather forecast had predicted a storm and, as usual, it was accurate. The skies had opened up, soaking the streets, cars and passersby.

She had been acting peculiar. After witnessing Emma's encounter with the man, John had tried to talk to her. She did not appear to be comfortable with speaking about it and had remained silent during the walk to the restaurant.

John looked back down at the menu and frowned. The waiter again approached the table. Emma continued to look out the window, seemingly oblivious to all that was going on around her. John finally made a half-hearted decision. After multiple attempts to gain her attention, he reached over and placed a hand on her arm. Startled, she withdrew her hand and looked at him. She gave a shy smiled.

"Sorry," she apologised, giving her order to the waiter, who then quickly left. Her eyes drifted down towards the table.

"So..." John began, but fell short of beginning the conversation. "You look beautiful, by the way." He had hoped the compliment might put her at ease, but it seemed to make matters worse. She would not give him eye contact.

"Thank you," she said quietly, fiddling with her cloth napkin.

Taking a deep breath, John tried again. "You're a physician?" She nodded. "What specialty?"

She looked up at him to reply. "Pediatrics, originally."

"Really? How nice...that's...nice." John replied, giving a faint smile. "I work in a clinic. See all types you know. It's...it's rewarding, I think." As he was about to opening his mouth to say more, his phone rang loudly. Glancing down he noticed a text message had come through.

"Have case. Need you. SH"

John sighed, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He was on a date. The dead body would no _could_ wait. He gave a quick smile to Emma. "It's nothing," he said as he noticed her eyes glancing down towards where the phone had been.

"How is he? Still self-medicating?" She asked quietly.

John nodded. While he was in the middle of taking a drink, the phone rang again. Pulling it out, he read the message.

"NOW"

John clenched his teeth, feeling his anger rising. Sherlock seemed to have a knack for ruining perfectly good things in his life. He looked up at Emma.

"You have to go," she said, not as a question, but rather a statement.

"I...I don't think so, no. It can wait." John said, tilting his head while giving her a confused look. _How could she possibly know?_ The phone rang again.

"SHE can wait. Need u now."

John looked up from the message. Emma was not angry, nor was she disappointed. She actually was not showing any particular emotion at the moment. She was simply staring at him. After a moment of silence, he said, "I'm sorry. I should go."

She gave a faint smile and nodded in understanding.

"Make this up to you? Tomorrow?" John asked as he stood up. She nodded again. "Tomorrow then. Thank you for understanding." As he was heading towards the door, he stopped, bent down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, to which she gasped. Having no clue as to why he had just done that, he hurried out the door before either of them could acknowledge it.

* * *

><p>John stepped out of the cab to find Sherlock pacing impatiently back and forth in front of the museum doors. "You're late!" he snapped, hurrying towards the doors and rushing inside.<p>

John gave him a dirty look, which was lost as it was to Sherlock's back. "I'm not late. You just texted me."

"15 minutes ago." came the curt reply.

"But, I...I was just..." he began, sighing with exasperation.

"Never mind that. Come with me." Sherlock interrupted, leading John towards the scene of the crime.

They entered a small office full of books as well as odds and ends. The room smelled of dust and mold. As John looked around, Sherlock circled the perimeter. "Notice anything _missing?_" He nearly hissed the last word.

John tried to observe as Sherlock observed, but he, admittedly, was not quite as good, or as clever. "My patience," he mumbled quietly. Unfortunately, Sherlock heard him quite well.

"_She_ can wait, John." Sherlock snapped. "What...is...missing." he stated again.

Finally looking down, John frowned and glanced back up at Sherlock. "I though this was a murder." Sherlock gave a smirk. "Well, where's the body?"

The response was a head jerk towards a gentleman wearing an overcoat, standing in the hallway just outside of the office. The man, though balding, was no more than thirty five years of age. Currently on his cell phone, he gave a quick glance at Sherlock and John before walking out of sight to continue his phone conversation.

"Where's Lestrade?" John asked, brow furrowed as he looked in the direction of the stranger.

"Interim inspector until Lestrade returns," Sherlock replied. "Name is of no importance. He was apparently called by the Superintendent and instructed to process the scene, _without me._" Staring at the floor, he sighed in frustration, mumbling to himself, "Idiot."

"Without you? The Super actually called _him?_ That's hard to believe. Everyone there knows you, knows the value of your observations." John stood, waiting for Sherlock to respond. He said nothing, did nothing, but stare at the floor, eyes darting back and forth. "Sherlock. Sherlock. "John could not gain his attention. "_Sherlock!_"

Sherlock looked back at him, his anger subsiding. "Sorry." Gaining composure, Sherlock stepped close to John and instructed quietly, "_Find_ the body. Give me cause of death."

"Pardon, what? Did you say _find_ the body? You mean, you don't know where it is?" John asked, slight amusement in his voice.

Sherlock was anything but amused. "John," he began in a warning tone, then lowered to a whisper. "Our _friend_ there." he nodded in the direction of the temporary inspector. "He had the body moved. Sent it to the morgue, though I highly doubt it was the Super that had called."

"You think he was lying." John stated, glancing towards the doorway.

"No. _He_ believes he spoke with the Super. No doubt someone with a talent for voices." Sherlock frowned, pacing around the room, searching for any clues. Stopping suddenly, he looked at John, annoyance written all over his face. "Well? I need you to visit the local morgue. Call if you find anything. I'll join you later." he resumed his pacing.

At first confused, John nodded quickly, "Right. Of course, the morgue. I'll head over there first thing after work, tomorrow." He was tired and, thanks to the interruption of the date, he was not in the mood for investigating a death.

Sherlock rushed towards him, grabbing his shoulders to gain his full attention and taking John by surprise. Looking him directly in the eyes, he whispered quickly, "Now, John! I need you to begin _now_!" he insisted. "Time is of the essence!"

"Sherlock!" he said incredulously, glancing at his phone. "It's nearly midnight. I have _work_ in the morning. I cannot spend all hours of the night in the morgue."

Sherlock gave him a look. With a sigh, as typical, John conceded. "Fine." He headed out the door and hailed a cab. His next stop would be the city morgue.


	2. Chapter 2

_John Watson's Blog_  
><em>June 8, 2011<em>

_Tired. So, so very tired. I can't begin to describe how tired I truly am. I'll post the case later. For now, it's off to the clinic!_

_I'm looking forward to seeing Emma again, though I'm so very tired. Have I mentioned I'm tired? I'd like to connect with her in the next few days. See if there is any spark. Thankfully, she never mentioned the kiss when I had left to meet Sherlock. I hope I didn't take it too quickly!_

* * *

><p>After a long night in the morgue, followed by a full day of clinic hours, John was dragging. Completely exhausted, he would have been happy enough to return to his flat, crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Unfortunately, he had promised Emma he would meet her. When John gave his word, no matter how difficult, he kept it. As his work was ending, he received a message from her.<p>

"Coffee?"

John read the text and sighed. He did not really feel anything for this woman. Emma was beautiful and, when she did speak, she was obviously intelligent. Yet, to John, there was something missing, something _off_. Believing that he was merely making excuses to cancel their date, he shrugged the feeling off and returned the text, "Yes. When and where?"

Emma responded, "Pret A Manager. 7?"

John glanced at the clock. It was six already. A wan smile crept over his face. _The break would be nice._ "See you then."

One hour later, John was rushing to the coffee shop. Though initially blaming Sherlock for his tardiness, John was beginning to wonder if _he_ was purposefully dragging his feet to meet with Emma. Reaching Pret A Manager, he glanced around and frowned. There was no sign of her.

Heading into the coffee shop, he found there were only a few tables open, and those were quickly filling up as more and more people trickled into the place. John was about to return to the curb when he nearly ran into Emma. "So sorry." he apologised.

"No, I should be sorry, John. I'm late." Emma responded with a slight frown.

John opened his mouth to explain that he too had been late, but decided to leave well enough alone. "Shall we?" he pointed to one of the few remaining open tables. Emma slipped into her seat, her back facing the wall. John remained standing. "What would you care to drink?"

"Vanilla latte, please." she said while reaching into her bag for money.

John held up his hand. "Please. Allow me." he insisted before leaving her to order their coffee. After paying for the drinks, John glanced back at Emma. She was staring out the window. He followed her line of sight, but whatever it was she was looking at was just past the shop's windows.

Once their coffees were ready, John rejoined Emma at the table, sitting down across from her. They smiled at each other. For a few moments after, uncomfortable silence reigned. Eventually, Emma broke the silence, "How was work?"

John looked up at her to ensure that she genuinely cared and was not asking to merely be polite. "Fine, good, actually. Though, it was a long day. I'm exhausted, really."

"It was that busy?" Emma asked in surprise.

"No, not at all. It was a rather slow day. It's just..." he began. "After dinner last night, I joined Sherlock in that case. It ended up being a late night." He sighed heavily.

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. What happened?" she asked in nearly a whisper.

"Oh, you wouldn't be interested, would you?" John asked her.

"Yes, please. Tell me what happened." she replied.

"Alright. Well, I met Sherlock, for what I assumed was a murder. But when I arrived, there was no body." he began.

"Aren't there supposed to be bodies with murders?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Well, yes, actually. The inspector, Lastrade, that is, wasn't there. Some new inspector, who did not wait for Sherlock. He said, well the short of it is he moved the body." he continued.

"Really? How did your friend handle that?" she asked.

"Who, Sherlock? Oh, he was irritated, annoyed." John took a sip from his cup. When he placed it down, he could have sworn there was a flicker of a smile on Emma's face.

"Did you ever find the body?" Emma asked.

"Yeah, eventually. Though I had to go to two different morgues and through a lot of people that apparently had no clue what they were doing." He sighed again, rubbing his eyes.

"And Sherlock...he was happy when you found the body?" she asked, glancing out the window briefly.

"Yeah, I suppose so." John said slowly, curious why she was asking such questions.

"He seems to be very in control of his emotions. Not exactly..." she hesitated on finishing.

"Human, you mean?" John asked with a smirk.

She gave a small smile, looking slightly embarrassed. "That does sound rude of me."

John laughed. "Actually, you aren't the only one that feels that way." He recalled observing the interaction between Sherlock and Anderson. _Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street. _When he looked back up at Emma, she was watching him with curiosity. "Sorry." He knew his mind was drifting from lack of sleep.

Emma reached across the table, tenderly touching his hand. "John, you must be tired. Go home. Rest. We can meet again at another time."

John could not help but smile broadly. Emma was very kind to end the date early for his benefit. "Thank you."

The two rose from their seats, cups in hand, and headed out to the curb. Awkwardly, they said their goodbyes and parted ways. Though it was not a long date, John felt better about seeing Emma.

* * *

><p><em>John Watson's Blog<em>  
><em>June 9, 2011<em>

_Museum 'Case' of the AWOL body_

_I finally have a moment to tell about an amusing case Sherlock had. It took place in June, at the museum. I was right in the middle of a dinner date with Emma when Sherlock rudely texted me that I should come immediately. At first, I was going to ignore him. Honestly, the body could wait. Ha! Emma was very forgiving for allowing me to reschedule our date. Odd thing though, I kissed her before I left. She never said anything about that kiss, but for a time I was afraid I had overstepped my bounds. Thankfully, all is well now._

_When I arrived at the museum, Sherlock was pacing on the front steps, as a tiger at the zoo. And he was annoyed with me. Me! He interrupted my date, yet he was annoyed. Sherlock certainly is one of a kind. _

_Yes, as the title suggests, there was no body, much to my amusement. Sherlock, no surprise, was not amused. Lestrade was on leave and the interim inspector had moved the body. According to Sherlock, someone disguised their voice and called, claiming they were the Super. The 'Super' had requested the body be moved immediately, before Sherlock arrived. _

_Though it was funny at first, until I noticed Sherlock's impatience grow. We needed to find the body, so, without a moment to lose I raced over to the morgue to locate and examine it before more evidence could be tampered with. _

_The body was that of the chairman of the board for the museum. Suspicions were on the museum director, who was being forced to retire on a low pension, the curator who had been recently fired, a guard, a general staff employee of thirty years and the members of the board._

_Everyone believed the murderer was the guard. The guard had been involved in a long affair with the general staff employee's wife. The museum director had met with the guard, told him he knew what was going on and it needed to stop. If the guard refused, the director threatened to tell the employee. Somehow, the employee found out and both he and the guard got into a scuffle. landing them in the ER. The guard had motive, but it wasn't him._

_Sherlock later discovered the museum had a few random artifacts missing, such as one of a pair of elephants, Statue of Tara, and the Indus seal. The inspector believed it was the curator who had stolen the pieces, as an act of revenge for being fired. I reminded him that the director could also be a suspect as he was forced to retired early. Sherlock somehow knew the missing items were merely to setup the curator as the murderer._

_Turns out, it was one of the members of the board. Apparently, the chairman and the CEO were planning to sell the museum to a company (cannot specify due to legal issues) which planned to level the place then build apartment buildings. The board discovered this, held a private meeting without the chairman and decided the plan must be stopped. Needless to say, though it was a 'unanimous' decision, one man carried it out._

_Though extremely tired, I was able to meet with Emma for coffee. It was nice just sitting and chatting with her. No pressure. Unfortunately, my weariness showed. Emma was kind enough to allow me to return home and rest. _

_I have a good feeling about this relationship. The more we have been able to see each other, the more she seems to be interested. I will be meeting her again for coffee tonight and will hopefully be able to take her out again this Friday or Saturday._

**_Comments_**

_The title, John. Appalling._

_This blog of yours is a complete waste of time. Trust me. Your entries are merely 'we did this' or 'they did that' and so on, as if you were writing a novel. My work is anything but! You've barely mentioned the players. I am, of course, referring to the suspects. It pains me that I even have to explain. What about the evidence? The reader has no clue as to how I arrived at the answer. _

_And, btw, it was a Kakiemon Elephant, part of a pair of 17th century Japanese porcelain__ figures. Details, John, details._

_SH_

_Bravo, John! Good to hear you've adjusted._

_Mike Stamford_

_Thanks, Mike! Sherlock? Stuff it._

_John_

_If you didn't want my input, you should have changed the settings to prevent comment._

_SH_

_Done :)_

_John_

_And...undone. _

_SH_

* * *

><p>Despite Sherlock's predictions, John continued to see Emma. Combing his hair down quickly with his fingers, before Sherlock could say a word, John had grabbed his coat, rushed down the stairs and headed to the Marble Arch bus stop.<p>

Sprinting, he squinted as the bright sun shone over the street and did his best to avoid both cars and people as he navigated his way towards the bus stop. Though his muscles burned from the sudden run, John would not slow down.

When he finally arrived, he groaned. She was standing at the stop, waiting for him. Slowing to a brisk walk, he smiled at Emma. Trying to catch his breath, he waved as he called out, "I am _so _sorry."

A smile flitted across her lips. John felt she was not actually looking at him, but rather past him. "John, you apologise entirely too much." she said with a wink.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I suppose I do. Sorry."

She grinned, hearing him apologise again. "John!"

He returned a broad grin. He was about to apologise again, but quickly closed his mouth. She gave a quick nod and turned in the direction the bus would be coming. When she glanced back, John thought for a moment that she was giving him a coy smile. He watched her, smiling in return.

"Right then. Shall we?" He said, as the bus arrived.

While the two quickly boarded the bus in search of seats, Emma was roughly pushed by a very tan, very tall man with dark brown hair. He growled low and the two exchanged looks. John moved to defend Emma, but was stopped when he felt her hand pressed against his chest. He looked at her, confused. She gave him a shake of the head, indicating that he should do nothing. Not entirely thrilled with the idea, John respected her wish and instead stood next to her, giving a menacing look to the stranger, both jaw and fists clenched.

After a few brief moments, the man walked away and sat down, still watching her. Emma did not react, other than to simply keep her eyes on him for a while. Eventually, she slipped into her seat. John remained standing for a while longer, his eyes still on the stranger. At last noticing that Emma had sat down, he followed suit.

"Do...do you know him?" John murmured to her. She shook her head very slightly and the two remained silent for a while as the bus sped off to it's next destination.

Soon after, John began to steal glances at Emma. Her brown hair was pulled up loosely behind her, allowing some loose strands to fall around her face. Emma did not seem to notice John's glances. He had not realised his eyes had been lingering until Emma suddenly turned to look at him. Her piercing green eyes bore into his. At first, John felt slightly uncomfortable by the sudden stare. Shaking it off, he offered another smile, to which she returned a small one of her own.

"I...uh, I hope you like the Gardens." John offered in conversation, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Emma's smile broadened and she replied, "I'm sure that I will. Thank you, John." She looked out the window.

John felt an unexpected warmth as her body touched his. He looked at her in surprise. Though she did not acknowledge it, Emma had moved close to lean against him. His smile widened with relief and pleasure at the thought and he, too, stared out the window, at nothing in particular.

Arriving at Kew Bridge stop, John offered his arm, which Emma took, and the two stepped out onto the street. It was only a few minutes walk to the Victoria Gate, though John wished it were longer. He had relished the idea that she was now by his side, her arm resting comfortably in his.

John had done research the previous night, purchased admission to the Gardens and had most of their visit planned in his mind. He first took her to the water lily greenhouse. Enormous lily pad's lined the center pool. The glass panes had various green vines growing up and across the frame work in the corners of the green house. The place was pleasantly warm.

Looking around the room and across the pond, his eyes scanned past who he thought was the man from the bus. Gasping in surprise, he looked back, but the man was gone. He frowned, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. Trying to take his mind off of the thought, John cleared his throat and read the information sign before them, "This green house was designed and built for the Victoria amazonica, the largest of the flowering waterlilies."

Emma gave a nod looking out over the pond. "These lilies have sharp spines hidden underneath. I find it rather attractive, how something so beautiful could hold a more sinister side."

John looked at her, surprised she knew anything about the plant and a little unnerved by her comment. Moving gently, he led her out of the greenhouse towards the treetop walkways. Within moments, they were standing in silence, looking over Kew Gardens from the walkway.

This time, it was Emma's turn to speak up. "Beautiful." She stated simply.

John looked at her and replied, "Yes."

Emma looked up at John, seemingly embarrassed, and smiled. Running her hand gently along the side of his face, she redirected his attention from her towards the garden. John blushed at the touch and at her hint to remain focussed on the view.

The remainder of the day, John did his best to learn more about Emma. Asking her questions, she eventually gave the answers that he desired. Emma told him she was originally from Auckland, New Zealand, as Sherlock had deduced. She had come to England with her parents when she was four years old, settling in Harrogate, Yorkshire. Her parents having since passed, she decided to move to a flat in London and work in a local clinic. She admitted to having an estranged brother, explaining that he had had an argument with their father and had run away from home. The cause had been her father's strict rules and her brother could no longer stand abiding by them.

As evening came, John and Emma walked back to the station, taking the bus back to the Marble Arch stop, near Baker Street. Again, the two remained silent during the ride. Once they disembarked, John tried conversing again. "Would you like to grab a bite?"

Emma appeared to hesitate, continuing to walk down Portman Street. John stayed in step with her, disappointment entering his heart. He had hoped their relationship was making progress.. _Perhaps she just isn't ready. _He thought woefully.

John was surprised when Emma stopped near Portman Square. Giving a gentle squeeze on his arm, she finally answered, "I would love dinner with you, John." Her green eyes seemingly glistened as they reflected the city lights.

John was elated at the turn of events. He had fully expected Emma to decline his offer and return to her flat. He wrapped her arm snugly around his and led her to one of his favourite local restaurants.

Choosing a small table outside, Emma made it a point to select a seat where her back was to the building. "I enjoy watching people." She explained.

John nodded in understanding and sat down opposite her.

"John, I'm not too hungry, really." she said.

"Oh, uh...well, if you don't want-" he began.

"No, no! That's not it at all." she interjected. "I'm sorry. I just meant...I don't think I could eat an entire meal. It would be a waste."

"Would you like to share a meal?" He asked, hoping she would agree as it might give a more intimate feel to their date. Otherwise, he would feel awkward eating while she watched.

"That would be lovely." She replied, presumably focusing on the people behind him.

After ordering their food, John began to feel self conscious about Emma's stares. At one point, he could not resist and had to turn around. He saw various people passing by, but no one that stood out so much as to capture her attention. Turning back around, he tried to start up a conversation, "Do you have any hobbies? Any interests?"

Emma sat, continuing to stare past him. She said nothing in response. In fact, it appeared she had not heard John at all. "Emma," he called out. Again she did not respond. "Emma," he said louder. Her eyes finally moved back to rest on him. "Your mind appeared to be elsewhere." He gave a smirk. "Reminds me of Sherlock, he does the exact same thing at times."

Her eyes narrowed at the mention of Sherlock. No longer did they hold a "far off" look, but appeared rather cold. John felt a pit in his stomach as she watched him. "Pardon?" She said quietly, her tone sounded anything but pleasant.

"I...uh, I meant, it's just..." John looked around, struggling to find the right words to dig him out of the hole he now felt he was in. "I know his meeting you was...well...Sherlock can at times be...uh..."

Emma lightly rested her hand on his. "John," she began. "It's alright. I understand what you mean."

John looked up and was surprised to find her cold look was completely replaced by a warm smile and sparkling eyes. A quiet sigh of relief, at that moment he felt very unsure of himself. Her hand squeezed gently, giving him the reassurance he needed to continue.

After finishing their light meal, John and Emma continued their walk down to Balcombe Street, where her flat was. Ever the gentleman, John wanted to kiss her goodnight, but did not want to push her. Emma was not like other women John had been involved with. She was somehow _different_.

Emma surprised him. After she had taken out her keys, she reached up to place a hand on the side of his face. "Thank you for a lovely evening, John." She said with a smile.

That one comment and smile from Emma was all the invitation he needed. John quickly leaned down and grazed her lips with a light kiss. "I had a great time." He whispered as he moved back.  
>"Goodnight, John." She said, unlocking the door and entering the building, leaving John to give a small wave and smile as she disappeared.<p>

The walk back to Baker Street was a short one and the most enjoyable John had experienced so far. He spent the entire time imaging what the future might hold for him with Emma. John had initially been unsure whether to continue the relationship. There were times that she seemed distant, detached. But lately, that all seemed to have subsided she appeared to be fully into the relationship now. With a deep sigh and a broad smile, he made his way up the steps to his flat. He only hoped Sherlock was not home.

* * *

><p><em>John Watson's Blog<em>  
><em>June 12, 2011<em>

_Kew Gardens_

_I recommend it to everyone. The place was beautiful. Though, it probably helped that Emma was with me. :)_

_The date went really well. I find Emma to be charming, beautiful and intelligent. I really like spending time with her. In fact, we have been trying to see each other, if possible, a few times each week. On occasion, Sherlock thwarts, unintentionally I hope, the dates, but we usually find a way to make it up._

_Emma said she would stop by on Saturday. We are planning to make a day of it at the London Zoo. _

**Comments**

_I do hope Emma takes care, considering the company she is currently keeping._

_Anonymous_

_Who are you?_

_John_

_Merely an observer._

_Anonymous_

_FYI, for those that read this blog, I will now be requiring an account prior to leaving comments on this blog._

_John_

* * *

><p>At the knock, Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a broad smile. She knew exactly who the woman was. "Emma!" she exclaimed. "John told me you would be arriving. It is so good to finally meet you. Shall I show you to up?"<p>

"Yes, thank you." Emma answered politely.

As the two headed upstairs, Mrs. Hudson in the lead, Emma took the opportunity to take a good look around. The entry way and staircase up to John's flat was plain and unimpressive. Still, she slowed to take in every detail.

Arriving at John's door, the landlady knocked. "Mrs. Hudson, why-" He started to asked, but stopped when he saw Emma behind her. "Emma." He said in surprise. "I, I...didn't realise you were already here."

Emma gave her usual small smile. "Hello, John."

"Please, come in." He said, moving to the side to allow the two ladies to enter.

"John." Mrs. Hudson tsked with disapproval as she looked over the room. In her eyes, the place was a complete mess and embarrassing to show to Emma. "I'll pick up this time, but I'm not your housekeeper, dear." she reminded him.

John began to open his mouth, but no words would come out. He was truly embarrassed. Mrs. Hudson saw, and at times treated, John as a son, though she never would admit to it. She began to tidy up the place, despite John's murmured protests. Emma took in the entire flat while trying to suppress a smile.

John gave Emma a weak smile. "Sor-" he began, but was interrupted.

"John," Emma said in a warning toning, knowing full well he was about to apologise. "How about some tea?"

"That would be lovely." he responded with a broadening smile, while glancing over at Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson, who was bent over, picking up piles of newspaper off of the floor, stood up straight and looked back at John. "I'm not your housekeeper." she reminded him.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry." he answered, appalled that he was being scolded in front of Emma.

"John, allow me?" Emma asked pointing to the kitchen.

"Uh..." John knew the mess that awaited in the kitchen. He was not exactly thrilled with the idea of his girlfriend preparing tea while he finished dressing. "No, I'll do it."

"_Please?_ It's quite alright. I don't mind, really." Emma pushed. "Finish getting ready, we'll have some tea and then head off. Alright?"

"No, it's fine. Have a sea-" He glanced around, noticing all of the possible places to sit were currently taken up by books or newspapers.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted.

At that outburst, Emma began to giggle, which in turn caused John to start laughing. Mrs. Hudson, however, remained where she was, looking at the two as if they had gone mad. Finally, taking a breath, Emma insisted, "I'll take care of the tea. John, get ready. Mrs. Hudson, you really don't have to clean up." Clearing a spot, she guided Mrs. Hudson to sit down. "Isn't it about time someone brought _you_ a spot of tea?" She gave a warm smile.

Mrs. Hudson was taken aback by Emma's kindness. "Thank you." She said, remaining in her seat.

With a nod and a grateful look, John left Emma and headed to his room. Emma, in turn, left Mrs. Hudson and headed to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, all three were back in the parlor, the tea having already been poured and ready for consumption. Quietly, they sat, sipping the tea.

The three suddenly heard the door downstairs open and slam shut, followed by hurried steps up the stairs. "John!" Sherlock called out. He rushed into the flat, barely giving Emma a glance. "Miss Harrington...no surprise there. Mrs. Hudson." He noted, before addressing John. "We have a new case!" He said excitedly.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head at Sherlock. "He has a date with Emma tonight."

Sherlock looked incredulously from Mrs. Hudson to John, ignoring Emma completely. "Surely it can wait. You saw each other yesterday. There's not a moment to lose, John."

John stood quickly. "Sherlock!" He was tired of how Sherlock brushed off everything he found to be important, especially Emma. Sherlock seemed to rarely acknowledge her. John always attributed it to a form of jealously, that Sherlock felt she was taking time away from a case. "It will have to wait."

"John, it's alright." Emma stood. She watched Sherlock intently. "It must be important, or he would not have asked you."

"Thank you, Miss Harrington. You see, John?" Sherlock pointed towards Emma. "She understands. You can see one another tomorrow. Let's go!" Sherlock turned around and quickly made his way down the stairs and out the door.

John approached Emma, placing his hands gently on her arms. "Emma, no...don't do this. I said we would go out and I meant it. He can wait, the case can wait. I don't care about that right now."

She smiled at him. "That is sweet. I suppose you're ri-"

"Oh my. I'm not feeling so well." Mrs. Hudson said quietly, making a failed attempt to stand. The tea cup slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the floor.

John and Emma quickly moved to her side. While John took her pulse, Emma felt her forehead and examined her eyes. The two exchanged glances. "Steady, but weak." John noted.  
>Emma gave a quick nod. "Pupils are fine, though she feels a bit warm."<p>

"Flu." he noted.

"Quite possibly. It is going around." she replied.

John's brow furrowed. He was about to tell Sherlock to leave without him when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Emma was standing next to him. "Go, John." She whispered. "Our date can wait for another time. Sherlock needs you and, I dare say, Mrs. Hudson needs me."

John assisted Mrs. Hudson down the stairs with Emma at her side. At the bottom, just as John was saying goodbye to Emma, Mrs. Hudson took hold of the railing.

"Perhaps I should stay?" He offered.

"No, I'll be fine." Mrs. Hudson tried to reassure him, but losing her balance, she nearly fell. "I'm just a bit dizzy."

John took hold of her arm to steady her. He looked towards the door with uncertainty. Emma spoke up, "John, I'll look after Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry. You go on. It will be fine. I'll take care of her."

"My dear, you don't have to." Mrs. Hudson said weakly.

Emma took her arm and began to lead her to her room. "Allow me. You need to rest. I'll clean up the kitchen and lock up when I leave."

"Emma." John called after her. She turned to look at him. "Thank you." he said with a whisper and a smile.

She returned the smile before turning to continue leading Mrs. Hudson to her room. As he shut the door, he heard Emma reassuring Mrs. Hudson that it was no trouble to care for her. His smile remained on his face as he walked down to meet Sherlock at the curb._ I just might marry that woman. _He thought.

"John," Sherlock began, but stopped as John raised a hand.

"I don't want to hear it, not now." John said. "The case?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, considering his words. Finally, with a nod, he began to fill John in on the case at hand. The two hailed a cab and set off for the evening.

* * *

><p><em>John Watson's Blog<em>  
><em>June 18, 2011<em>

_Unfortunately, I've had to take down my post on Sherlock's most recent case. Seems the company was none too happy when they discovered the post._

_At any rate, Emma has been on my mind...a lot. Things have been progressing nicely, I dare say. She is truly a remarkable woman, and was very kind to take care of dear Mrs. Hudson. _

_When Sherlock and I had arrived home later that evening, the kitchen was spotless, the flat quiet and Mrs. Hudson fast asleep in her room (I assume). In the morning, she was very groggy. I wonder if she hadn't mixed some medications that might have caused the ill effect from the previous night. If I remember, I'll discuss it with Emma._

**Comments**

_I'm not a drug addict, dear. By the way, Emma is a sweet girl and would make a wonderful wife. _

_Mrs Hudson_

_Thank you, Mrs H._

_John_

_Proposing anytime soon, are we? I wouldn't._

_Harry Watson_

_I wouldn't take advice from you. No offense._

_John_

_Marriage is indeed a grand adventure. But are you man enough for it? How does Sherlock feel?_  
><em>Oh, that's right...he doesn't.<em>

_Anonymous_

_How did you post without an account?_

_John_

_:)_

_Anonymous_

* * *

><p>Initially, when John had first gone out with Emma he questioned whether she was truly interested. It had been Mrs. Hudson who reassured him that Emma was simply acting as a proper young lady should act.<p>

"No woman should throw herself at a man. It's just not decent." She had explained.

It seemed to him that, shortly after Mrs. Hudson's reassurances, John found Emma to be more receptive to his advances. He was curious if the two women had spoken of his concerns. Simple public displays of affection that she normally had shied away from, she now seemed to take in stride. _Thank you, Mrs. Hudson._ John thought gratefully.

Her change in demeanour encouraged John to take things further. One evening, John surprised Emma with a romantic picnic in the park, during the summer concerts. He led her to a blanket, where a light dinner of sandwiches, fruit and champagne awaited them.

While listening to a classical music performance and sipping champagne, he wrapped his arm around her. As the evening drew to a close, brilliant and stunning fireworks lit the night's sky. Again, he looked down at Emma and was met by those piercing green eyes, now reflecting the colours of the fireworks.

In that moment, steeling himself for rejection, he kissed her. To his surprise, she wrapped her hand around his neck, pulling into the kiss. Holding her tightly, they continued to kiss until the firework show had finished. John tried to read her eyes, to plan his next step, but it was difficult. She made it difficult.

Standing, he held his hand out and assisted her to her feet. They gathered the picnic, blanket, and made their way back to her flat. As they walked side by side, John kept his arm wrapped snugly around her waist. He was not about to let this evening end.

Reaching her doorstep, John had placed the basket and blanket on the ground while she unlocked the door, opened it and paused. When she looked back at John, he was staring at her. Quickly pulling her towards him, he kissed her. Emma's demeanour had certainly changed, as she aggressively wrapped her arms tightly around him. When the kiss had ended, without a word, Emma took John's hand and led him into the building.

* * *

><p>The following morning, John awoke alone. Glancing around, it took him a few moments to gather his bearings. He was not in his bed, nor in his room. Recalling the events of the previous night with a grin, he dressed and walked out to the other room, expecting to find Emma. Instead, he found her entire flat to be eerily quiet. She was not home.<p>

Frowning, he gathered his things, pulled on his coat and headed out the door. Walking slowly back to Baker Street, he ran over what had happened the night before. It was exactly as he had hoped it would be. Oddly though, in the back of his mind he still had doubts about Emma. There was something that made him feel as if she were not completely in the relationship. He could not understand why he had this nagging feeling, especially considering what had transpired the night before. Entering the flat, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, holding his violin, thinking. Avoiding eye contact, John made his way to his room.

"Morning." Sherlock called out. John could tell by the tone in his voice that he was implying so many things.

With a sigh, he replied, "Morning." After a long shower, he dressed in clean clothes and went to the kitchen for a quick bite.

"Have a pleasant evening?" Sherlock asked, though he knew exactly what John had been up to.

John stood leaning against the open refrigerator door. _Why do I bother looking in here? _He thought as he stared into a refrigerator full of non-edible items. "What? Oh, yeah, pleasant evening," he replied with half a thought to Sherlock. His mind was still on Emma, curious that she had not woken him before she had left.

"Are you seeing her again tonight?" He asked from the other room.

John shut the door and leaned against one of the counters. Rubbing his eyes, he answered without thinking, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Good! I shall accompany you." Sherlock replied.

John paused in mid-rub. "Pardon? What was that?" He walked to the other room, looking at the back of Sherlock's head. "Did you say you are coming with us?" He asked, not believing it.

"Why not?" Sherlock set the violin down and sprang out of his chair, eyeing John as he continued, "I should make an effort to know Miss Herrington."

"Emma. Her name is Emma. You can call her that." John said with irritation.

"Very well. Emma." he said patiently. "If you two are to be betrothed-"

"Now hold on a minute. I never said anything about-" John interrupted, but was interrupted in turn by Sherlock.

"You have doubts?" he asked.

"No, I, what?" John was confused. He hardly had time to think about his relationship with Emma and here Sherlock was interrogating him. "No, no, I have no doubts. Well, maybe one or two, but that's only natural. No, I'm fine. _We _are fine." he stated, but wondered if it was more to reassure himself than to end the conversation with his flatmate.

"Then, dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked, observing John.

John hated when Sherlock watched his every move, reading into all of it. It made him uncomfortable. He felt the same way at times when Emma looked at him. At that thought, John paled, to which Sherlock took notice.

"Problem?" He asked.

"No, no problem. Dinner is fine." He mumbled as he went for his coat and headed out the door. He needed time to think, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_John Watson's Blog_  
><em>June 25, 2011<em>

_Though I had to cancel the date from last week, I was able to make it up to Emma last night. And what a spectacular night it was! We enjoyed a nice picnic, listened to classical music and watched a splendid display of fireworks. All in all, it was an evening I'd never forget. There was one odd thing. _

_I have been concerned about a strange man who has approached her. At least, I think it's the same man each time: the bus, the Gardens (though I'm not entirely sure that wasn't just my mind playing tricks), out in front of her building. Every time I mention it, she seems to withdrawal from the conversation. I wonder if it isn't her estranged brother. At any rate, I'm curious if Sherlock has noticed the same. My assumption would be his self invite is directly related to this prowler._

_Needless to say, I plan on seeing Emma again tonight. Unfortunately, with Sherlock tagging along, his presence will certainly "make or break" my relationship with Emma. He just doesn't get it, or doesn't care to. Either way, it's irritating. And then he starts asking me about... *sigh* again, never mind. _

_I do like Emma, I really like her. I just don't think she's ready for that step, not yet at least. We have been seeing a lot of each other, which I've thoroughly enjoyed. Some days, I feel like I can't get enough of her. Still, between work, cases with Sherlock and dates with Emma, I'm exhausted!_

_Wish me luck tonight! I'm truly going to need it._

**Comments**

_She sounds lovely. But is she your type?_

_Anonymous_

_Mycroft? _

_John_

_That old sod? Not even close. :)_

_Anonymous_

_Apparently, I'm not the only one skilled at hacking into this blog._

_SH_

_If you can do it, dear "SH", then it would most certainly come easy for me._

_Anonymous_

_Curious._

_SH_

* * *

><p>As evening approached, John hoped Sherlock had forgotten about inviting himself to dinner. Unfortunately, his friend remembered all too well. As John was about to step out to meet Emma, Sherlock joined him. With the added company, dinner at the<em> Blue Elephant<em> was out. John decided on the more casual atmosphere of _Tapas Brindisa._

While waiting for a cab, Sherlock seemed preoccupied. John hesitated to interrogate him. It was not until after the cab had pulled away from the curb that he blurted out, "So, what's this about, Sherlock?" He knew he only had a few minutes before they would arrive at Emma's.

Sherlock had been gazing out the window, until John's outburst drew his attention. "Pardon?" he asked, with an air of innocence.

"Don't play me. You're doing this for a reason and I want to know what it is." John pushed, crossing his arms to show how serious he was.

Sherlock turned back towards the window, eyes darting from left to right. He offered one name, "Emma."

"Pfft!" John exhaled, shaking his head. "You have _never_ expressed an interest in her, _ever. _What about Emma could possibly have caught your interest now?"

Sherlock glanced back at John, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "Emma is being followed."

"Sherlock, if you knew, why didn't you say anything?" John demanded.

Eyebrow raised, the detective replied, "I had to be certain he was following _her_ and not _you_. These days, it can been difficult to tell as you two are, as the saying goes, 'joined at the hip'." He offered a patronising smile.

John blushed with embarrassment. "Who's following her? Is it her brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If I knew that, I wouldn't have bothered inviting myself, now would I?"

John started to open his mouth, then stopped. He spied Emma waiting outside on the steps as the cab pulled up. Giving a serious look to his friend, he pleaded, "_Please_, say nothing now. When you do tell her, put it to her easy." John opened the door and quickly stepped out. "Emma, you look beautiful, as always." His grin broadened the closer he drew to her.

Emma blushed, looking away. "John!" she whispered, knowing Sherlock was within earshot.

"What? I don't care...frankly, neither does he." he grinned, pulling her into his arms. "How are you doing?" he asked, concern in his voice. He knew she did not want to talk about the man following her. Still, he had to keep pushing and prodding. He was concerned for her safety.

"Good thanks." Seeing that John was waiting expectantly, she again answered, "It's fine. Really, John. There's nothing to worry about."

As he gazed into her eyes, his smile grew. "You are beautiful." She blushed again. He gave her a quick kiss.

Biting her lip in an attempt to suppress a grin, Emma slipped into the cab. John quickly followed sitting close by her side, wrapping his arm around her. After Sherlock's comment, he felt the desire to protect her.

Sherlock continued to eye the cab's mirrors, glancing behind occasionally. John had tried to gain his attention, but Sherlock's concentration was elsewhere. Knowing he had an ulterior motive to joining them for dinner, dread filled John's heart as he wondered when that motive would become evident to Emma.

Arriving at _Tapas Brindisa_, John escorted Emma through the doors of the restaurant. When John shot a questioning look to his friend, Sherlock gave a quick glance towards Emma. He searched the streets in an attempt to locate the follower, but was stopped by a stern expression and subtle head shake from his flatmate.

During the meal, John did his best to keep his attention on Emma. Though he was having a pleasant time, he could not stop thoughts that entered his mind. _Why was she being followed? And by whom? _When he broke from these questions, he was surprised to find Emma observing Sherlock.

Sherlock remained focussed on the front of the restaurant. "So tell me, Emma." he interrupted their conversation, not having turned to face her. "What did you say your profession was?"

Emma scrutinized the side of Sherlock's face, eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

"Sherlock. I've told you, she's a Pediatrician." John said, obviously irritated.

Sherlock gave a quick glance to John, then at Emma. "Is that so?"

"It is." she replied, eyeing him steadily.

"Enjoy your work?" he asked.

"I do." she replied simply.

"Like children?" he continued to pry.

"I neither like nor dislike them." she shrugged, looking down at her plate of food as if disinterested in the line of questioning.

"And you said your parents live where, exactly?" he asked.

"My parents are dead." Her reply was cold.

"And your brother?" he interrogated.

She tensed visibly at the question. "Estranged. I...I have no idea where my brother is."

"Interesting. Any problems between the two of you before he left?" he prodded.

The fingers of her right hand began to play with loose strands of her hair. "None that I can think of. His problem was with my parents."

"Problem?" he asked.

"Yes. My parents, especially my father, were very strict." she told him.

"Explain." he said, then seeing John's seething look, quickly added, "please."

Emma shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Curfew, school grades, general association with friends."

"Describe your brother to me." he insisted.

She glanced at John. "I...I don't understand why-"

John shot a look at his flatmate. "Sherlock." he said in warning.

"John, it is a simple question. _Please_." He waved John off, waiting for Emma to answer.

Emma hesitated. John recognized her expression, it was the same one she gave him whenever he asked about the mysterious man. "Brown hair, green eyes, fair complexion." she answered quietly.

"No, Miss Herrington." Sherlock said with a quiet sigh. John shot him a look.

Emma's eyes darted from Sherlock to John. "Really, is this necessary?" she gave a weak smile. She turned to John and whispered, "I'm extremely tired. Would you mind if I-"

"_Emma_...his weight, height, build, if you _please_." Sherlock interrupted.

"Sherlock." John again said in warning.

She paused for a moment, a flash of irritation on her face. Finally, taking a deep breath, "Um...I guess around 12 stones 13, maybe 5 feet 11, average build. Why the sudden interest?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, eyes darting back and forth as he processed the information. Finally, he spoke, "Emma, you are being followed."

John sat back in his seat, exasperated. "Sherlock! You couldn't have worded that...that is to say..." he said. He worried how Emma would react, knowing that they were aware of her stalker.

Emma appeared to pale. "Surely not. There must be some kind of mistake-"

"I _rarely_ make mistakes." Sherlock retorted.

She feigned surprise. "Who would followed me? And why?" To John, Emma was a terrible liar. He figured she must know who had been following her.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he responded coolly, "By a male that may very well fit the description you've given me of your brother. Unfortunately, he has been wearing a hooded sweatshirt, so it is difficult to tell."

Emma peered out the windows of the restaurant, but could see no one.

"Oh, you will not find him, I assure you. Obviously someone of _some _skill..." Sherlock mused. "...he has been following you for some time now."

John looked from Emma to Sherlock. "Now what?"

Sherlock leaned in close to rapidly whisper, "I shall endeavour to approach your 'shadow'. I need for you two to continue your dinner as planned. When you leave, go South. Provided he follows Emma, I plan to observe him for a while before approaching him. Give me ten minutes before you hail a cab."

"John, I'm scared." Emma whispered, leaning into his arms.

"You're trembling. Emma, darling, I'm here." John said, wrapping his arm around her and looking at her with great concern.

"Emma." Sherlock said, gaining her attention. "If there is _any _reason why someone would be following you, now would be the time to tell me." He looked at her, observing her movements and reaction.

Emma avoided eye contact, shook her head, and leaned against John. "I can think of no reason. None at all. I'm sorry." A few tears fell down her face.

"Emma, Sherlock can help. _We_ can help you. Whatever the problem is, just tell us." John said tenderly, holding her closer to him.

"I..." she was devastated. With a heavy sigh, she yielded, "I didn't want to involve you, _either _of you. Please let it alone. I can take care of it. I have nearly all of the money."

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. "Money?" Sherlock prodded.

Emma gazed at Sherlock. Then, with downcast eyes, she explained, "My brother had, that is _has_, a gambling addition. He is in considerable debt. He told me if he didn't pay his bookie what he owed, they might kill him. Or come after me." she swallowed hard.

John was stunned upon hearing the unpleasant truth.

"If I pay, this will all be over. _Please_, let it be." she implored, tears welling up.

"Ah, but that is the _catch_." Sherlock explained. "It will merely be the beginning of a long and arduous blackmail."

"Emma, these types include con artists. They have no qualms about taking your money, or anyone else's, for that matter. I don't want anything to happen to you." John looked at her with concern.

She growled in exasperation. "Which is why I didn't want to involve you! What if they decide to go after you? I just couldn't...it would kill me if..." she choked up on her words.

"I know." he whispered. Taking her chin in his grasp, he lifted her face towards him. With a tender smile, he continued, "Trust me when I say we've been through worse. Let us help you, _please_?"

Her eyes moved back and forth, as if searching for something within his. At last, with an imperceptible nod, she answered, a tremor in her voice, "Alright."

John smiled broadly, at last feeling he would be able to take control of the situation and protect her in the process. Addressing Sherlock, he said, "I'm ready when you are."

Sherlock nodded and stood. Then, addressing John, he gave a knowing smirk, "Do me a favour? Don't _look_ for him." He left the restaurant, disappearing into the darkness.

John and Emma sat, staring at their plates of food. Neither was very hungry. Emma pushed her plate away in frustration. John wrapped his arm around her in a comforting embrace. "Emma, I'll make certain nothing happens to you. Sherlock is intelligent and resourceful. He'll get to the bottom of this. He'll see to your safety. We both will. I promise." John squeezed her gently, hoping his words would reassure her.

She looked up at him, causing that nagging feeling to play at the back of his mind, as if he were looking at his flatmate. The feeling dissipated when she finally smiled. "I'm sorry, John. I guess I'm not much for company now." She glanced out the window of the restaurant.

"I know." he whispered. "It's understandable. If you need me..." he trailed off.

"Actually, if it doesn't sound too forward..." she hesitated.

"Yes, anything. Name it." he said quickly. At that moment, he would have done anything for her.

"Stay with me the night? I don't want to be alone." She looked back at him, her eyes filled with tears.

"Absolutely. I wouldn't leave you alone, not now." He smiled, giving her a hug. Then, taking a deep breath, he asked, "You ready?"

She, too, took in a breath and gave a quick nod.

The couple stood and carefully made their way outside. Taking Sherlock's instructions to heart, they headed South down the street. Walking closely together, arm-in-arm, John did his best to look large and menacing as they headed back in the direction of her flat. Though tempted to look around, he tried to keep his eyes focussed ahead. He did glace down at his watch multiple times, however.

"John." she whispered nervously.

"Not yet." he said quietly as he held her tighter, having wrapped his arm around her waist.

It seemed an eternity for them before the ten minutes were up. John quickly hailed a cab and the two gave a sigh of relief as they were driven back to her flat. When they arrived, Emma was visibly agitated. She struggled to find her keys. Cursing under her breath, she pushed around the contents of her bag frantically before she finally found them. As she was about to unlock the door, the ring of keys dropped to the ground. She groaned. Her hands were trembling so much she could not steady them.

"Here, let me." John said in a whisper. Picking the keys up from the ground, he unlocked the door and allowed her to enter first, following closely behind.

* * *

><p>The following morning, John awoke, gathering his bearings again. He was in her room and Emma was gone. Standing quickly, he dressed and headed to the other room. By the window, Emma stood, staring out onto the street.<p>

"Emma." he said softly, kissing her cheek and wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. "You should not be standing by the window." He lead her to a chair and forced her to sit down.

Emma slowly raised her head. She had dark rings around her eyes, the whites having a red tint to them. The last thing he remembered was holding her in his arms. _She must not have slept_. He felt guilty for having fallen asleep when she needed him most.

"Let me make you some tea." he said. She nodded acceptance and he left for the kitchen. Using his mobile phone, he called Sherlock.

"John." The familiar voice said over the phone.

"Anything?" John whispered, hoping Emma could not overhear him.

"No. I was on his trail. Unfortunately, he discovered me and, soon after, disappeared." Sherlock replied. "I have an idea though."

John groaned internally. _That_ was never good. He dreaded asking, "What is it?"

"We need bait." he said simply.

"No, absolutely not. Sherlock, she's terrified. You can't expect her-" John began.

"John, she's a strong woman. _You_ must know that by now. She _must_. We don't know who this man is. The only way to find out is to catch him in the act of following her. I need you to assist me in following _him_. You can't do that if you are with _her_." he explained.

John sighed deeply. Sherlock was, as always, correct. Still, he was not entirely sure he could convince Emma of that. "Alright. I'll speak with her."

"John, do not allow your emotions to cloud your judgement. If you truly want to help her, you need to distance yourself for a time." he stated.

"Right. Well, easy enough for you." John said right before Sherlock hung up the phone.

Leaning against the counter, deep in thought, John at first did not hear the whistle of the tea pot. Eventually, the piercing noise brought him back to reality. Preparing two cups of tea, he walked back into the other room and squatted down next to her. She took the proffered cup and began to sip it carefully.

"Emma." John said, failing to find the right words. "I..."

She watched him as she continued to sip her tea.

John swallowed hard. _Those eyes. I feel as if she can read my thoughts, anticipate what I'm going to say._

"He didn't catch the man." she stated rather than asked. John shook his head. "What now?"

"He...he wants to use you as bait. To lure the man back out into the open." he explained.

"Tonight?" she nodded, placing her cup on the table next to her.

"Yes." he said, eyes downcast to the floor. "Without me." he whispered. Glancing back up, he found her eyes wide in surprise. "I'm so sorry, Emma. Sherlock believes that if I were with him, I would be more useful in catching this man."

She shook her head, appearing to be rather frightened.

"Emma, I _promise_ I will not be far from you. I will _not_ let anything happen to you." He took her hand in his. "I love you."

Something flash in her eyes that John did not recognise. Slowly, a smile crept over her lips. "I love you, too, John." she replied.

At that moment, her words sounded hollow. _She must be terribly frightened. I'm sure it will be better once this is resolved._ He thought hopefully. Taking her into his arms, he gave her a tight squeeze.


	4. Chapter 4

At sun set, Emma Herrington left her flat and began her walk to the bus stop. Bag in hand, her destination was clear to only a select few. The tap of her heels echoed on the streets as she walked briskly. Her pea coat was open with a red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Despite the warmth of the evening, she had her arms tightly crossed in front.

When Emma passed by one building, a shadowy figure moved to watch her. Once she was fifteen metres away, the man silently skulked his way out onto the sidewalk. Wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and dark grey trousers, the man stole across the street, matching pace with Emma.

Stopping for a moment, Emma pulled out her mobile phone and checked a text message. The man continued down his side of the street for a distance, passing Emma, then taking cover in the entrance of a nearby building. After a few seconds of reading, Emma put her phone away and resumed walking. The man waited until she had passed approximately twenty metres ahead before he continued to follow, still on the opposite side of the street.

Little did the man realised he was being followed. Twenty metres behind him, on the same side of the street as Emma, was John. He held his phone in hand, texting Emma. His intent was merely to look busy, though he took the opportunity to send her encouraging messages. Every once in a while, he would look around, curious as to where Sherlock was, but always keeping aware of the man.

Emma had turned to cross the street, when her path intersected that of her stalker. She froze as he approached her. John was too far away at the moment to hear what was being said. He was preparing to break into a run to assist her, when he received a text message from Sherlock.

Wait.

Sherlock, located on the same side of the street as Emma and the mysterious man, had remained concealed within the shadows beneath the trees. He was approaching from the opposite direction, moving silently. Both he and John witnessed the confrontation. Neither could hear the exchange.

After a few minutes, Emma shook her head quickly. The man appeared to be asking her a question. Holding up her hands in an act of surrender, she seemed to plead with him. The man pointed a threatening finger at her. The tone in his voice heated. The words unintelligible.

"Sherlock." John growled, moving closer to Emma. He could not stand the wait.

Suddenly, the man grabbed her wrists. Emma screamed. John broke into a run as she began to struggle. His heart raced as he tore across the street. Before he could reach her, Emma ripped herself from the man's grasp and took off in a run. The stranger pursued. John sprinted after, hoping Sherlock was close behind.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he followed the two down an alley.

Sherlock anticipated. He ran opposite of John to intersect their paths. However, Emma turned unexpectedly, running through the foyer of a building. In a heartbeat, she was out the other side and onto the street. Jumping into a cab, Emma yelled at the driver. Unfortunately, the hooded man jumped in seconds before the car drove off.

"John!" she cried out, and the cab was gone.

John heard her scream, but by the time he ran out onto the street, she was gone. Leaning over, his hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath. He stood and paced in frustration and anxiety, desperate to do something, _anything_.

_She can't be gone! _He thought frantically.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone rang. It was Sherlock. "She's gone. I've lost her." John said into the phone. His heart ached at the thought of having failed the woman he had promised to protect.

"John, she's with me." Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked incredulously. Relief washed over him. "Oh, thank God!" he leaned against the wall, suddenly weak. "But...how?"

"Meet us at our flat. She cannot stay at her place." Sherlock answered. "We'll talk there."

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson warmly welcomed Emma into the building. She did not approve of her staying in the flat with Sherlock and John and had insisted on providing a room for Emma to stay the night.<p>

"Mrs. Hudson, that really isn't necessary." John began. "It's not like we haven't-" Mrs. Hudson's disapproving look stopped him from speaking. With a weak smile, he nodded in agreement that Emma would stay in a room of her own.

Emma, who was bruised and scraped, limped her way up the stairs, with assistance from John. The three remained together going over the details of that evening's events. As she and Sherlock discussed the man who was following her, John focused on cleaning the wounds she had sustained when falling out of the cab.

"So, you say you had entered the cab to escape the assailant." Sherlock stated.

She perceived he was observing her, his jaw was tight, his hands forming a temple. "Yes." Emma replied.

"But he followed you into the cab." he continued.

"Yes." she again replied.

"And, how is it you managed to escape?" Sherlock asked. John gave him a scathing look. Emma had been through a traumatic experiencing and his friend was treating her as if she were lying.

"I kicked him hard, pulled his hair and sprayed him with pepper spray. I did not wait for the cab driver to stop. I opened the door and jumped out." she explained.

Sherlock nodded, sinking further into his chair.

"Y-you don't believe me?" she asked. John heard a tremor in her voice, though her eyes conveyed something else to Sherlock.

"The evidence supports your story." he replied matter of factly.

"My...my story." she said quietly, looking down at John who was bandaging up her scraped knee. "My story?" She stood, suddenly in a rage. "For your information, _Mr._ Holmes, it is _not_ a story. It happened and I am frightened for my _life_!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, observing her.

John stood up. "Emma, I apologise for Sherlock's rude behaviour. He...he means well, I...I think." He shot a look to his flatmate.

Emma glared at John. "You! You are always making excuses for him. Do you not see? He thinks he's better than everyone!" she snapped.

Her eyes darted back and forth. John had a look of surprise on his face. Never had he heard Emma speak in such a manner. Sherlock remained in his seat, still watching and listening. He did not move.

Emma looked down at Sherlock as the anger in her eyes began to subside. Quietly, she said to him, "I'll handle this on my own." She picked up her coat and headed for the door. John ran after her, trying to stop her.

"Your brother." Sherlock stated.

Emma had the door open, but turned to face him. "Pardon?" Her cool demeanour had returned, the rage gone.

"Was the assailant your brother?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Yes." she replied and left down the stairs and out the door.

John was left staring at Sherlock as Emma rushed out. He moved to follow her when Sherlock called out, "Wait."

John whipped back around. "Why? Sherlock, tell me _why _should I wait? She's going to walk back to her flat, alone, at night. I would think you _wanted_ her to be attacked. You desperately need a case and are making her one right now!"

"John." Sherlock sighed. "You are letting your emotions control you. Take a step back." he instructed, but John was not in the mood to listen.

"No. I will _not_ step back. All she is to you is another problem to solve, another mystery to unravel. She's my _girlfriend_, not an experiment." John argued.

"John." Sherlock said.

"What?" John snapped at him.

"The assailant could not have been her brother." he answered.

"What? How could you possibly know that?" John asked, grabbing his coat.

"I could see him from my vantage point. His skin was tan and he was over six feet tall." he answered, waiting for the information to sink in.

John stood still for a moment, hand still reaching for his coat. _Tan? Six feet... _After a few moments, his hand slowly lowered to his side. "Not her brother?"

"No."

"Then, who was he and why was he following her?" John demanded.

"More importantly," Sherlock added. "Why did she lie?"

John glared at his flatmate. Clenching his fists, his anger had reached near breaking point. "So, that's it is it?"

"Pardon? Is what _it_?" Sherlock gazed over at him in an almost lazy manner, as if he had forgotten all about Emma or the recent events.

"She's been through a traumatic experience. She didn't want to involve us in the first place and this 'adventure' turned out poorly. Yet, all _you_ are concerned with is that she lied. So she lied. You were right. The great, all-knowing Sherlock Holmes is _always_ right!" he yelled. Sherlock tilted his head and was about to argue the point, but John would not give any leeway. "Did it occur to you that she might be pushing us, or more accurately _you_, away? She said so herself. It wasn't a story, yet you treated her as if she were a suspect! You don't know a bloody thing about Emma, or women for that matter. You said so yourself: women are not your _area_. But, oh no! Sherlock could not possibly be wrong, not in his _little _world!" he began pacing angrily about the room.

"John." his flatmate started to say, but was interrupted.

"No. You _listen_ to me!" he hissed. "I'm tired of being pushed around. Tired of seeing you treat her that way. She's a lady and deserves every bit of your respect!" he stopped, as if having an epiphany. "Jealous. You are jealous."

"What?" Sherlock ask in disbelief.

"You heard me. Ever since I started seeing Emma, you've done everything possible to end it. You were rude at our first meeting. You almost consistently made me late to our dates and you pulled me away from her to work on cases."

Eyebrow raised, Sherlock jumped up and snapped back, "You never complained about the cases. In fact, I don't recall you protesting, save for one instance."

"I... it was..." John stuttered. Realizing Sherlock was gaining the upper hand, he rallied. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you hired that man to stalk her. You didn't, did you?"

"No." his friend said impatiently. "John-"

"Don't 'John' me! She is my girlfriend, quite possible will be my wife someday. There, I said it!" he shouted.

Seeing the smirk that was now on Sherlock's face only served to enrage John. With a swoosh, he swung his tightly clenched fist. A loud crack could be heard in the flat as his knuckles slammed hard into the detective's jaw. Sherlock fell back into his chair from the surprisingly strong blow. John shook his aching hand, his breathing heavy, his face red.

"Perhaps you and your brother would do well to remain out of my personal life. Do _not_ question my relationship with her." he seethed.

"My brother? What has Mycroft to do with this?" Sherlock asked, an edge to his voice.

Grabbing his coat, John turned on Sherlock, who was nursing a sore jaw. "I called him about the medications you were taking." John began to explain. He received a scolding look from Sherlock.

John continued, "I was _concerned_! Imagine that. I had mentioned speaking with Emma about it. Mycroft seemed surprised. Said something about me not being her type, or some sort of rubbish." He waved his hand as if to brush the idea off. Silence reigned for a few minutes. John was pulling on his coat, when Sherlock jumped back up, taking his own coat "Where are you going?" John asked angrily.

"For a walk." Sherlock answered, without explanation, and left John alone to his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

_John Watson's Blog_  
><em>June 27, 2011<em>

_I'm confused and, well frankly, brassed off. Sherlock and I had it out last night._

_On top of that, I was lied to and I can't fathom the reason why. And Sherlock was right about it, in his usual smug manner. Arrghh! is all I can say. I'm sure there is a good explanation for the lie. Would traumatic experiences cause someone to lie out of fear? I need to get to the bottom of it, at least for my peace of mind, if nothing else._

_Either way, it felt damn good to give him the right hook._

_Comments_

_No doubt, Sherlock has her figured out? Then again, you two are so easy._  
><em>8-|<em>

_Anonymous_

_Seriously. Get off._

_John_

* * *

><p>John had not slept well the previous night. The altercation Emma had with the mystery man was enough, but when Sherlock mentioned Emma had lied about who the man was, all of it put him on edge. He rarely put his trust in anyone, but when he did it was completely.<p>

Having called in 'sick' at the surgery, John gave Emma a ring. He simply said, "We need to talk." He was still upset with his flatmate, but also at the situation with Emma. He tried not to reveal it in his voice. As Sherlock seemed to continually remind him, he needed to break from his emotions, take a step back and observe.

He met her at the front of Pret A Manager. Handing Emma a cup of coffee, he motioned they should begin walking. Silence reigned as the two sipped their coffees and strolled down the street.

Clearing his throat, John stopped suddenly. "Emma..." He began to ask her about last night, but quickly changed his mind. "...how are you feeling?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, reading his face. With a concerned look, she perceived, "John, something is bothering you. I can only assume it has to do with last night. What is it?"

John gave a weak smile. There she goes again. Am I that obvious? "I...," he took a deep breath. "I want to know why you lied. Why did you tell Sherlock the man last night was your brother?"

Emma looked off in the distance, a frown forming on her lips. "I was upset...at him. He wasn't taking me seriously. So, why should I take him seriously?" She glanced back at John. "Do you believe me?"

"Of course I do!" John's brow furrowed. "Emma, he can help you, but only if you want it. You must be truthful, otherwise he will pick you apart. He needs to understand why you lied. I need to know."

Emma shook her head in frustration. "He doesn't care, not about me. He only cares about the mystery, the unknown. He didn't believe me."

"Yes, he did! He said he believed you," John said in exasperation.

"No, John. He said the evidence supported my story. That isn't quite the same." She again frowned and resumed walking.

John matched pace with her, trying to read her. It is so difficult to tell what is going on inside! "You're right. He used a poor choice of words, I'll grant you. But he did, uh, does believe you!" He reached out with his hand, gently taking hold of her arm to stop her. She would not face him. She still seemed upset and, thus far, John's words had not affected her in the slightest.

In a soft tone, John said, "Look at me, Emma. Please." Emma looked briefly over her shoulder at John, giving a ghost of a smile. He led her to a nearby bench where the two sat. "Help me understand."

Emma gave a quick nod and, briefly closing her eyes, took a deep cleansing breath. "I don't know the man's name, but he has been following me for quite some time. I had no idea what he wanted until around the first week of June. He approached me and, rather roughly, threatened me. He said that my brother owed him a great deal of money. Gambling, as I said. He asked where my brother was. Of course, I had no idea. But he didn't take that for an answer. He told me to find my brother, or else I would owe the debt. It was the same man that I had run into..." she trailed off.

"The bus? The man on the bus? I had asked if you knew him, but you said you didn't." John frowned, recalling.

"I did know him, but I couldn't very well say anything. It would have called attention to this whole matter. We were just beginning to date and I didn't want to ruin it. You had planned such a lovely evening at Kew Gardens. Why would I mess that up with this trouble?" She gave a fleeting smile, which John returned. She continued, "From then on, I noticed that he would follow me nearly every where I went. It was nerve-racking, to say the least. When Sherlock mentioned he knew about the man, I was horrified. I didn't want to drag either of you into this mess. I wanted to take care of it quietly. I had nearly all of the money collected. But my time had run out. Last night the man confronted me. He demanded the money or my life. I told him I was trying to collect it, but I didn't have it all yet. He wanted what I had and was threatening to kill me. That is why I ran."

John nodded. "And when Sherlock asked if he was your brother?"

Emma shook her head. "It occurred to me that the two of you were becoming more involved in my problems. I didn't want that for you, John. This is a mess. My life is a mess and I can't risk having you taken down with me." John was about to protest, but she held up her hand. She sounded as if she were choking on her words. John gave her a gentle squeeze on the hand. "I lied to stop you and Sherlock from pursuing this further. But, in the process, it seems I've only fuelled the fire."

John grinned. "Yeah, that's the thing about Sherlock. Once his interest is peaked, there is no way to stop him. He'll die trying to solve any riddle."

"Is that so?" Emma asked with curiosity. She grinned at John. "He is very..."

"Strange? Odd? Peculiar?" he offered.

Emma laughed. Taking hold of his hand, she looked directly at him. "I'm sorry, John. Sorry for lying to you both. I..."

"I know. You meant well. Just...be truthful, okay? It'll make it easier. At least on me." He gave her a wink and wrapped his arm around her shoulder in a hug.

She turned to give him a light kiss on the hand, when she noticed redness on his knuckles. "John, are you alright?" she asked while inspecting his hand.

John sniggered. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Emma could see a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"Oh, John...you didn't." She sounded appalled.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Sherlock?" she guessed. His grin broadened. "John!"

"He asked for it! I was defending your honour," he said gallantly, his chest puffing up proudly. "I had to sock him."

She giggled. "John, I do believe that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."

* * *

><p><em>John Watson's Blog<em>  
><em>June 28, 2011<em>

_I had a nice chat with Emma. I now understand._

_Odd thing, the strange man doesn't seem to be following her any more. Sherlock has become extremely agitated and I believe he is actually baffled. I do hope things start to settle down. For now, I plan to take Emma out on a date, a truly romantic date, to the Blue Elephant. I had wanted to take her there before, but with Sherlock tagging along, it just wasn't possible. I'm not spending that much money on him!_

_Comments_

_Good luck, John. It's an excellent place for a romantic dinner._

_Mike Stamford_

_Thanks, Mike!_

_John_

_We probably should address the elephant in the room. Ha!_

_Harry Watson_

_Harry, I may have to revoke your privileges if YOU keep asking. Emma and I are simply dating for now._

_John_

_Sounds like an angry comment from the peanut gallery. :)_  
><em>That's a smiley face, by the way.<em>

_Mrs. Hudson_

_Stop it. Now._

_SH_

_Never been to this restaurant. Are trunks required?_

_Molly Hopper_

_If the date isn't at the Blue Elephant, it's irrElephant._

_Mike Stamford_

_I once shot an elephant in my pyjamas. Why he was in my pyjamas, I'll never know._

_Harry Watson_

_Where is my revolver?_

_SH_

_Your antiquated Webley? Might want to invest in something similar to John's. Now THAT is a nice piece (I am, of course, referring to his gun)._

_Anonymous_

* * *

><p>When Friday evening arrived, though the rage had subsided, John still found himself irritated with Sherlock. In the three days that had passed, his flatmate did not acknowledge, nor did he apologise for, his rude behaviour. In fact, he had hardly spoken a word. He had become fixated on the anonymous blogger who had in fact 'borrowed' his Webley Mark VI revolver. After the comment was posted, Sherlock found one bullet had been recently fired. John's P226 seemed to have remained untouched.<p>

Sherlock had analysed the .455 calibre gun, checking for any clue as to its recent user, but came up with nothing. It was odd for John to see Sherlock, for a brief moment, baffled. Calls and contacts had been made. For now, he had to wait on others to complete their searches. One thing Sherlock hated above anything was having to wait.

John had left for Emma's residence, not bothering to say anything to Sherlock. He buzzed the intercom and waited. It had been three days since their talk. He had been satisfied with her explanation and was looking forward to a romantic evening. John turned towards the street, looking around to keep himself occupied. He felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach. Why am I so nervous?

His thoughts turned to daydreams as he recalled how she had looked on previous nights. She typically wore a black pea coat and red scarf. Her brown hair gathered behind in a French bun with a few loose wisps framing her face. In that moment, John's heart fluttered and he could not help but smile broadly.

Returning from his daydream, it occurred to John that Emma had not answered, nor had she come down from her flat. Buzzing the intercom again, he waited. John looked at his phone. How long have I been waiting? 2...3 minutes? He buzzed her again, waiting another minute. Puzzled, he dialled her mobile phone. A faint ringing could be heard from upstairs.

John frowned. Why is she not answering? "Emma!" John called out with no response. He walked back towards the curb and looked up at her window. No light was on. Odd, I just spoke with her a few hours ago.

He panned through his list of contacts until he came across the hospital number Emma had provided. The phone rang over and over, without an answer. He hung up and redialled the number. Finally, an older woman answered the phone.

"Yeah." She sounded inconvenienced as well as equally bored by the call.

"Yes, hi." John began, trying to remove any anxiety from his voice. "I'd like to speak with Dr. Herrington."

John's request was met with silence.

"Yes, hello?" he said. He glanced quickly at his mobile, curious if the call had been disconnected.

"One moment," was the curt reply. A few seconds letter, she returned. "Sir, there is no doctor on call with that name."

"What? Really?" he asked in surprise. He thought Emma might be at the hospital since she was not at her flat. "Are you sure?"

"Quite," the woman replied, a tinge of rudeness in her voice.

"Dr. Emma Herrington? She works in Pediatrics," he pushed, hoping the woman had made a mistake.

"No, sir. No physician by that name. Thank you." The soft click made it clear that she had ended the call.

John stared at his mobile in disbelief. She hung up on me! That...that... He growled in frustration. Looking back up at Emma's window, he took a breath. Relax, John. I'm sure there is a good explanation. He decided to wait on the steps outside, hoping she would show up soon. While waiting, he dialled his friend, Jane. She had introduce the two in the coffee shop back in May. Though he had not seen her in quite some time, he hoped that she still kept in close contact with Emma. Unfortunately, she was not answering. John left a message asking her to call as soon as possible regarding Emma.

After fifteen minutes passed, the worry began to edge at the back of his mind. A couple passed by him and walked up the stairs into the building. Taking advantage, John slipped in behind them before the door closed and locked. Pressing his back against the wall of the vestibule, he waited for the couple to disappear into their flat. When they had gone, he bound up the stairs.

Reaching Emma's place, he knocked a few times. Emma did not answer. There were no sounds from within. He knocked louder, his anxiety building with each second.

Pacing frantically, he thought, What should I do? What should I- John stopped as his eyes fell on the key hole. He glanced down the flight of stairs, then back at the lock on Emma's door. I haven't a clue where to start.

Finally, as desperation began to set in, he struck the door harder. He paused. No answer. Hitting harder, his ears picked up the clink of metal falling on the floor. John spun around. A reflection of light flashing off of metal caught his eye. A key. His heart began to pound rapidly. Looking up, he spied a piece of moulding that had knocked loose, a small space behind indicating where the key had been.

With a silent prayer, he inserted the key into the lock. A turn and push, the lock released and the door swung open. Thank you, Emma!

Then the thought occurred to him, Would it be wise to enter a darkened flat without protection? What if the stalker had Emma inside? In the dark? Honestly John... Cursing under his breath at the lack of forethought, he debated his next move. He felt time was of the essence, considering that Emma might be in danger. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and held it while entering her flat quietly.

Hugging the wall, he moved away from the entry and squatted low in the darkness. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He squinted. No movement could be detected. Still holding his breath, he strained his ears. No sounds. Reaching up behind him, his fingers quietly traced the table, searching. John turned the lamp on and gasped. Scrambling to his feet, his eyes scanned over the ransacked flat. He felt immobilized. Emma! This can't be happening! The coffee table was smashed to pieces. Papers and books were strewn all over the floor. Stuffing oozed out of knife slashes in the sofa cushions. As he stepped forward, crackling of broken glass snapped his eyes downward. He had stepped on a framed picture.

Slowly he picked up the photograph of the two of them from a few weeks back. His eyes glistened with moisture. Blinking, he shook off the initial shock. Emma had been kidnapped and needed his help. Reaching for his mobile, he speed dialled Sherlock.

"Come on. Answer!" he pleaded quietly. No answer. He dialled again. No answer. He dialled a third time.

A click followed by "What, John?"

"Sherlock! Oh, thank God you answered. Sherlock, I need you to come over to Emma's flat right now."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not much for company at the moment, thank you."

Sherlock was about to hang up, when John quickly blurted, "She's missing, Sherlock! Emma is gone and her place looks to have been searched."

"Don't touch anything. Call Lestrade." Sherlock hung up.

* * *

><p>John met his friend at the bottom of the stairs. Ignoring any possibility of a bruised ego or sore jaw, Sherlock nodded to his flatmate and bounded up the steps, two at a time, to Emma's flat. John followed quickly behind.<p>

Stopping at the open door, Sherlock squatted down. "Used a key?"

"Yeah, why?" John asked.

He stood. "Interesting...," he mused.

"What, exactly, is interesting?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at him askance. "Lucky for you there was a key."

John nodded with a frown. He knew Sherlock did not exactly mean lucky in the traditional sense. "It...it fell when I was knocking on the door."

"A knock?" Sherlock questioned, noting the space where the key had been hidden away.

John hesitated, avoiding eye contact. "Well, perhaps a more...enthusiastic knock."

"The key was dislodged and fell." Sherlock smirked at his friend. "Convenient." he murmured, though inaudible to John, as he moved into the flat.

"I found her mobile," John pointed out. "There are text messages here that you should read."

Sherlock eyed John for a moment, evaluating his mental and emotional state. "I told you not to touch anything."

He flushed with extreme embarrassment. "Sorry," was all John could muster.

Taking the mobile in hand, Sherlock thumbed through numerous messages. The last few responses were sent an hour before John had arrived.

He wants to chat.

I can't.

He says NOW. Meet at Convoys Wharf, 5pm.

I can't!

Coming for you.

"Coming for you. The stalker?" John said while accepting the mobile back from Sherlock. "Do you suppose this is the stalker?"

"He..." Walking about the flat, Sherlock murmured while occasionally glancing sideways at his flatmate. In order to keep John's mind from drifting towards more terrible thoughts, he asked, "Impression?"

"Hmm?" John asked distractedly.

"John, focus." Sherlock had turned to observe his friend. "It will do her no good to dwell on the negative at the moment." He turned back around, continuing his search. He noted small bits of dark gray clay near the entrance of her flat.

John's eyes drifted aimlessly around Emma's flat. Looking back at Sherlock, he said, "Uh, obviously not a robbery." He glanced around, his mind slowly rejoining the search for clues. "I couldn't find her bag or pocketbook anywhere, but considering recent events, that, the texts..."

Sherlock made a sound to indicate he was listening.

John stared at the sofa. "...the state of the furniture, my guess is she struggled with the man. He must have taken her."

"Excellent, John!" Sherlock responded in praise. "What else?

Deep in thought, John did not immediately answer. He was so distracted by 'what ifs' that he had not noticed the light blood spatter on the wall. He was startled when Sherlock snapped at him.

"John!"

John jumped back into reality.

"John," Sherlock said with a quiet sigh, the features on his face slightly softening. "You are no good to me in this state. Separate your emotions from the case."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John replied, irritation evident in his tone. "Wait. Did you just say case? Is that all she is to you? Another case?"

Sherlock ignored the questions, his eyes running over the cast off of blood on the wall. He squatted down, eyeing scrapes and additional blood on the floor. "She's been stabbed, most likely twice, given the cast off pattern...," he murmured, though John did not hear as he was angrily pacing back and forth.

Sherlock noted a crushed reddish orange feather in the living room rug. He took out his phone and worked for a few minutes in silence. Then, at one point, he stopped and closed his eyes. To anyone unfamiliar with the consulting detective, it would have appeared he was taking a break to relax. In actuality, he had begun to reconstruct possible scenarios.

John paced hurriedly about the room. He understood Sherlock's methods, but at the moment, was impatient at having to wait. Please let Emma be alright! he thought. Stopping for a moment, he watched his friend with lids half closed. Frustrated, John began to pace again. He was bursting with energy and needed to take action.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was going over the evidence in his mind. The scrapes in the floor were so light, that John had not noticed them. The smeared finger prints on the door frame were most likely from Emma. "It was the stalker that came here tonight. I recognize the faint scent of his cologne. It would appear we have evidence of two weapons involved. Neither are here."

"Two weapons? I haven't seen any weapon," John commented, unintentionally hurrying the discussion.

"John, just listen and allow me to provide the deductions and observations." He gave a quick smile. John, in turn, gave a forced smile."There were, at least, two weapons: a knife and a revolver. The knife was knocked from Emma's hand during the struggle here, and skidded across the floor. It came to rest under the bookcase there. However, there was at least one other weapon, as evidenced by the .455 calibre bullet embedded in the wall there." He pointed up towards the wall in front of them. "The casing seems to have been carelessly tossed on the floor, under the bookcase. It would have required the shooter to manually eject the casing. Curious..."

"Then where's the gun, or the knife, for that matter?" John challenged. "And did you say at least?"

Sherlock sighed at John's impatience. "I've found no evidence that the knife is still here, but I highly doubt he used it to 'encourage' her departure. He did not use the resolver either. He must have had another weapon."

"Emma! We need to hurry, before he kills her!" John snapped, heading for the door, his body tense. He needed to do something. Standing in her flat, he felt utterly useless.

"Wait, would be no point in killing her. One cannot collect from the dead. If she truly does owe a debt on her brother's behalf, as she has said, he will merely provide the proper motivation to ensure future payment."

John frowned. "That isn't reassuring, Sherlock."

"As for the revolver I mentioned..." Sherlock answered, still working through the evidence in his mind. "...it is in our flat."

"What? How?" John began to ask. His shoulders slouched as the realisation set in. "The anonymous blogger."

"I believe the bullet originated from my revolver. There was evidence that it had been recently fired," he mused, eyeing the familiar .455 Mk I calibre ammunition casing. "Which means I'll need to give it up to Lestrade as evidence." He growled in frustration. England's gun laws were strict, making it difficult for a citizen to obtain a firearm certificate. Since Sherlock had not bothered to waste time obtaining said certificate, owning the revolver was, technically, illegal. "I wonder..."

"What?" John stopped at the entrance to the flat, not entirely listening to his friend.

"I wonder if the kidnapper knew this...if the anonymous blogger knew-" he stopped, thinking it best to keep John unaware of his lack of the certificate. In that respect, if John were ever asked, he would know nothing. Quickly, he corrected, "Never mind. I'm not certain how it ties in with Emma at the moment. No doubt the trace in this flat is from the wharf. I recognise the reddish orange feather of the black redstart. That and the gray silty clay I've found leads me to believe her kidnapper had come from a store house in the Convey Wharf area. I know of one where recent excavation has been halted. I suggest we make haste. "

John led the way as the two rushed down the stairs. "You don't seem surprised by all of this," he said through clenched teeth, the frustration and annoyance quite clear. His anger was growing, yet he could not bring himself to look back at Sherlock.

"It was obvious from the tone in your voice," he said with indifference.

"Does it matter to you? Do you even care if she is injured or...or wor-," he gulped.

Sherlock shot him a look as the two stopped at the front door. "Do I care? It would change nothing, accomplish nothing. What good would it do her if I worried? None at all." Taking hold of the door, he continued outside. "John, you are ruled entirely too much by your heart. Your emotions may be your downfall, if you are not careful.

John stopped short. It had just occurred to him that he was unarmed and heading into a possibly dangerous situation. "My-" His words were stopped when his eye caught the familiar sight of his P226, in Sherlock's hand. With a sheepish grin, he said, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said, returning a grin.

John quickly tucked it in his belt against his back. The feel of the cold metal through his shirt was reassuring at that moment. He breathed a prayer of thanks, as Lestrade and his team pulled up just seconds after he had concealed the weapon.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John were already out on the street when Lestrade pulled up to the curb. The inspector glanced from one man to the other. He gave them both a stern look.

"And just where do you think you two are going?" Lestrade demanded.

"Out." Was Sherlock's terse reply.

Lestrade pointed towards the building before pulling his coat back to shove his hands in his trouser pockets. "Care to explain?"

"This is the flat of Emma Herrington, who has recently gone missing," the detective replied, giving a cursory once over of the inspector.

"And your connection?" the inspector questioned.

John spoke up."She's my girlfriend."

"Really?" Lestrade said in surprise, turning to John.

John frowned as he crossed his arms. "Yes, really. W-why do you sound surprised?"

"Oh, I...Nothing, never mind." Lestrade shrugged it off.

"Right, well...I'm not gay. I have a girlfriend." John answered defensively. "And, we are in a bit of a hurry."

Sherlock gave John a subtle shake of the head. He understood his friend was worried and impatient to find Emma, but to tell Lestrade, or any officer, that they were in a hurry was a bad idea.

"In a hurry? Her flat is in disarray? And now you're fleeing the scene of the crime. Is that it?" the inspector prodded, pulling a small book out and making some notes.

"What? No! Look, we, that is Emma and I, were going to go out. She didn't answer the com, nor her mobile. The hospital wasn't much help either." he answered truthfully.

"How did you get in?" Lestrade glanced back at the forensics team that was now setting up.

John's eyes darted over to Sherlock, who was currently looking away. "Uh, a couple let me in the building. When I knocked on Emma's door, a key fell from the moulding."

"So, you just helped yourself..." Lestrade gave a smirk.

John said in exasperation, "Well, yeah. I mean...I was worried!"

"No friends or family to call?" he continued to question.

John shook his head. "None...well, I mean, there is the one, but she hasn't returned my call."

"I'll need the name and number." Lestrade motioned to one of the officers to join them. Lestrade continued, "And how long had you been in her flat before calling the police?"

John's brow furrowed in concentration. "Um, not more than five minutes, I suppose."

"You suppose." The female officer stood nearby, listening. Lestrade crossed his arms. "You saw her place, the mess, and waited five minutes before calling the police?"

John stammered, "N-no, I didn't wait. I was in shock. I called Sherlock, then called you."

"So, you called your friend first before the police." He looked over at Sherlock. The consulting detective was distracted, concentrating heavily on the steps and entrance to the building.

"It's not like that. I didn't know what to do." John looked to his friend for help, but was unable to gain his attention.

Lestrade glared at John. "The place has been ransacked and you didn't know to call the police first?"

"No, I meant...she's missing and Sherlock is the only one who can find her." John scrambled to explain.

The inspector growled, obviously annoyed at the comment. "The police aren't capable?"

"I, uh, that's not what I meant!" John waved his hands in surrender. He was growing frustrated. I should probably shut up now.

"You and Sherlock are quite close. Did he have a look in there before we arrived?" Lestrade looked sideways at the detective.

"Well, yeah, I suppose so. What does that have-" John frowned, following the inspector's gaze.

"Did either of you touch anything?" the inspector pushed.

"No, of course not!" John snapped, swallowing hard. Emma's mobile was still in his pocket.

"Lestrade." Sherlock shot him a warning.

Lestrade shook his head in defiance. "Sherlock, you know as well as I that he is a suspect."

"A suspect?" John said incredulously.

"Yeah. A suspect." Lestrade stepped towards John as if prepared to meet any challenge.

"Lestrade, you know he is not a suspect." Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"I can't rule that out yet, especially on your word. You two being as close as you are..." Lestrade responded.

"Just what are you implying?" John snapped, fists clenched.

"Nothing...nothing.." Lestrade shook his head.

John turned away, then stepped back towards the inspector. "I'm not gay!"

He looked at John. "That wasn't what I was implying. Perhaps your friend, a skilled detective, might have helped you either hide or plant evidence."

"Ridiculous." Sherlock scoffed.

"Regardless, you both need to answer questions. John, you'll go with the sergeant here. Sherlock, you're with me. We will do this separately. I don't want any contamination of interview questions. Understood?" Lestrade said firmly.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, I'm not sure you should be involved in this investigation," Lestrade said. "We've only just begun to process the crime scene. We have nothing to go on as of yet."<p>

"Precisely. You have nothing. You need me." Sherlock answered with a sneer.

"We don't always need you." Lestrade retorted.

The detective gave him a knowing glance, moving towards the building as if to continue his investigation.

"Stop." The inspector blocked his path. "Your friend there," He pointed behind him in the direction John had been lead for questioning. "He's involved, which means you shouldn't be. Until we can rule him out-"

"As what? A suspect? Honestly, Lestrade. Does your stupidity know no bounds?" Sherlock said with impatience. "He was with me, in the flat, until just an hour ago. He would not have had the time to do this. Besides, he actually likes this woman."

"With you, did you say?" Lestrade gave a smirk. "Great, then you won't mind answering a few of my questions.

"Lestrade." Sherlock warned, giving a dirty look.

"I'm only following procedure. What would you have me do? Allow you free reign of the flat? Unlikely." His smile broadened. "Answer my questions, politely. The sooner you finish, the sooner I might let you go over the crime scene."

Sherlock grumbled and sulked.

"Your name?"

Sherlock glared at the inspector, but said nothing.

"Your name?" Lestrade repeated with more emphasis and less patience. "Sherlock." he waited.

The detective clenched his jaw. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Address?" he asked.

"Is this really necessary? You know where I live." Sherlock sighed in frustration, then continued a little louder, "You all know where I live."

"Address?" Lestrade repeated, his face deadpan.

Sherlock sighed again. "221B Baker Street."

"Occupation?"

"Oh, come on Lestrade!" Sherlock said in exasperation.

Snickering could be heard from around the corner. "Alright, alright." Lestrade chuckled before moving on to more detailed questions.

"A young woman has been kidnapped and you find this to be funny?" Sherlock asked tensely. "Lestrade, you know me. Let me work."

Lestrade watched him for a moment. Looking around them, he lowered his voice, "Do you really believe this is a kidnapping and not..."

"All evidence points to it being a kidnapping." Sherlock relaxed his posture. "Leave me to locate her first. I'll explain later."

The inspector eyed Sherlock for a moment. "I'm sure I'll regret this. Alright, go. You have 48 hours to find her before I find you."

Sherlock grinned as he turned to collect John. "I only need two."

* * *

><p>Lestrade had wanted to ensure the two men could not hear or see one another. So, while Sherlock remained outside with him, John had been escorted inside. The female sergeant lead John to a secluded space within the building to question him. She watched him intently for a moment. Wearing a hat, strands of blonde hair fell into soft curls at the base of her neck. Her blue eyes shown with curiosity.<p>

"Your name?" she asked with a subtle Irish accent.

"John Watson," he said with a sigh.

"Address."

"221B Baker Street," he answered while glancing at the door. All he wanted in that moment was to leave.

"How do you know the victim?" the sergeant asked.

John's eyes darted from upstairs to the entrance of the building. "She...she's my girlfriend." he said distractedly.

The officer wrote a few notes before asking, "How long have you known her?"

John briefly glanced at the notepad the officer was holding, hoping to read it, but her writing was illegible to him. "Um, several months now."

"Several..." Unnoticed by John, the officers eyes traced up and down his body. "How serious was it?"

"Pardon, what? Serious? What does that have to do with anything?" he briefly glanced at her before looking back upstairs.

"Just answer the question, sir." she smirked.

He shook his head. "Right. Well...yeah, yeah it is a bit serious."

She raised an eyebrow. "A bit. Were you in love with her?"

John hesitated. "It's not like I asked her to marry me, but..."

She waited. When he did not continue, she pushed, "Sir?"

John sighed. "Yes, it is serious. I am in love with her. We are dating exclusively."

"Last you saw her?" the officer asked as she took down a few notes.

"I, uh...I saw her three days ago. Spoke with her on the mobile a few hours ago. I was going to take her to the Blue Elephant."

"Good restaurant?" she asked, not bothering to look up at him.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I haven't actu-" he growled in annoyance. "Are we done here?" He had no interest in small talk.

She suppressed a grin. "Almost. Is there anyone else, family or friend, that we might contact?"

He shook his head. "No. No...she has no family and no friends that I know of."

"No other information that might be of assistance?" she watched as he looked around, but seemed to avoid eye contact.

He consider whether or not to mention the stalker, the one man that he and Sherlock had tried to confront, but failed. "No." he finally answered.

"How long have you known Sherlock Holmes?" she continued.

John hesitated for a moment, trying to recall when they have first met. "Six months or so."

"And you trust him?" she asked.

"Yeah...," he cleared his throat. "Yes, I trust him."

"You two are quite close," she commented.

"Sure, I guess," he answered, his frustration growing. He was tired of everyone pointing that fact out.

"What must it be like, living in his shadow?" she mused softly.

At that question, John looked up at her. Her blue eyes shown bright, despite the shadowy hallway. They seemed to penetrate through him and he feared she might read his guilt, knowing that he had possession of the mobile.

Before he could answer the question, she ended the conversation by saying, "Thank you, Dr. Watson. I'll be in touch, should there be anything else. Please do not leave the area."

"Yes, of course." John answered, while being escorted out of the building. "But, I'd like to go-"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible." she turned to re-enter the building.

* * *

><p>Lestrade had just finished questioning Sherlock. The forensic team passed by, led by crime scene technician, Anderson. Sherlock stared at Lestrade.<p>

"What?" the inspector asked upon seeing his face.

Sherlock took one look at the crime scene tech, then back at Lestrade.

"Really?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sherlock waited, saying nothing.

The inspector sighed heavily. "Fine. Anderson? Wait outside."

"What? Because he says so?" Anderson argued, crossing his arms.

"I didn't say anything." Sherlock corrected.

"But you-" Anderson began.

"Anderson, just do it!" Lestrade snapped, brushing past Sherlock to enter the building. The remainder of the team followed quickly behind. They were doing their best to avoid eye contact with the lead tech, who was furious.

Anderson glared at the detective and grumbled as he walked back towards one of the cars. Satisfied, Sherlock turned towards his friend. John looked pale. Once out on the street, he murmured to John, "We have an address to visit."

John gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you!"

As the two passed under the crime scene tape, Sherlock called out, "Anderson. Stay away from my crime scene."

"Your crime scene? What do you mean by that? I have every right-" Anderson began to argue, but was cut short as Sherlock and John quickly headed down the street.

"Sorry." John called out in apology to Anderson, though there was really no point in doing so. 

* * *

><p>The cab driver pulled to a stop on the corner of Grove Street and Leeway near Convoys Wharf. Sherlock murmured instructions to the driver before he and John slipped out. A tall brick wall loomed before them, adorned with coils of barbed wire. It was anything but inviting. The wooden gate was worn, but sturdy. It too, was topped with barbed wire.<p>

Peering through a small crack where the gate hinged, John could barely make out two dilapidated buildings to the North, forgotten by men, but not by time. The elements had not been kind to the area. Most brick structures had all but fallen completely down. The click of metal roused John's attention. Sherlock had managed to pick the gate lock within a matter of minutes.

Sherlock proceeded towards the two structures that sat side by side, one of which had only a partial roof intact. John was curious as to why they were not heading towards the larger structures, such as the Olympia warehouse. To him, it seemed a reasonable place to start. As if reading his mind, Sherlock said in a hushed whisper, "She will most likely be in this smaller warehouse. Taking into account the feather, as well as the sediment that would only have been found if several layers have been dug up, the most logical place to start would be there. Those structures cover the most recently halted excavation. The one with the roof exposed to the elements and open for the redstart to nest inside, and currently unused by the public, would make the perfect 'private' spot to hold her."

Their pace, initially quick, slowed dramatically when they drew closer to the buildings. The two men crouched low, though there was little to hide behind if they were spotted. Reaching the first building, they pressed their backs up against the wall and moved along towards the second, less structurally sound building. John's ears and eyes strained, hoping for some evidence that Emma was still alive. At that moment, he was steeling himself for the worst.

A flood of relief washed over him when he picked up the sound of soft crying. "Emma, "John whispered, which was met with Sherlock's raised hand. His body immediately tensed.

Sherlock glanced around the corner quickly, then settle back into hiding. Processing what he saw, he held steady for a moment. His brow furrowed, a frown beginning to form on his lips. To John, this did not bode well. Leaning in close, his warm breath brushed past John's ear as he rapidly whispered instructions. "Do as I say. No questions. With your gun drawn, carefully make your way to Emma. Keep watchful. I do not see the kidnapper. I'll meet you in a few minutes."

"You aren't-" John began, but was stopped by Sherlock's seething look. Once John gave a nod of understanding, Sherlock pushed past him back the way they had come.

Slowly, John moved around the corner. Shadows covered a majority of the inside with only one large beam of light shining down from the North side of the building where the roof had collapsed. After his eyes had a moment to adjust, with gun drawn and at the ready, he carefully stepped over the fallen brick wall and inside the building. A chill ran over his spine, though he was not entirely sure if it was due to the light breeze or his nerves.

Quickly, his eyes scanned from right to left. No movement could be seen. He paused. Only the sound of muffled sobbing could be heard. He crept towards the crying, hugging the wall. One foot over the other, he gingerly stepped. A portion of wall jutted out, blocking his progress. Taking a deep breath, he quickly spun around it, holding his weapon firm. There, in the corner, was a huddled figure, the head covered with what appeared to be a small burlap sack.

"Emma?" John whispered. The crying stopped. The figured turned towards John, then froze. "Emma," he whispered again, cautiously moving towards her. He wanted to make sure it was truly her and not a trap.

"John!" came the muffled replied from Emma.

John moved quickly to Emma's side, putting the safety back on the gun and tucking it behind his back. He pulled the sack from her head to find she had been beaten, having sustained a black eye with a small cut above the cheek bone and a cut lower lip that was bleeding. The collar of her shirt had been ripped, the lower portion was stained with blood.

Taking her trembling hands in his, he managed to release Emma from the ropes that bound her. As soon as her hands were freed, she rushed into his arms, shaking violently. "Shhh, Emma. It's alright. I'm here. I won't let you go."

Hearing movement from outside, John spun around, drawing his P226 SIG and simultaneously switching off the safety. He remained between Emma and the approaching sound. Fingers tensing around the weapon's grip, John took a deep breath, calming his body to ensure accurate aim. He was prepared to kill anyone at that moment who might want to do Emma harm.

Before coming around the corner, Sherlock announced, "It's me, John. Put down your weapon."

John lowered the automatic. "How-"

"Must you ask?" Sherlock asked dryly. He waved a hand, "He's not here." He looked at Emma, who was hiding behind John. "He's not here, Emma. Where is he?"

"I...I...," she shook her head, trying to answer, but soon was overwhelmed with emotion.

Putting his gun away, John turned and pulled Emma back into his arms. Her sobs were muffled as she buried her face in John's shirt. He held her tightly, hoping her fears would ease now that he was there.

"Sherlock, she's in shock." he explained on Emma's behalf, pulling her ever more closely to him.

It took Emma some time to finally calm down enough to walk her back to the street and into the idling cab. John glanced at Sherlock. His friend seemed to be prepared for the ride back to 221B Baker Street, no one said a word. Once they arrived, John carefully led Emma up the seventeen steps and into the living room of their flat. She was still trembling. Lightly tracing her chin, he lifted her face so she was looking at him.

"Let me examine your injuries, hmm?" he asked as gently as possible.

Emma looked away, her lip trembling. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice betrayed her words.

John gave a warm smile, knowing she was doing her best to keep up a brave front. "Emma, you don't have to do that. Not for me. I know you've been hurt. Let me help?"

She looked into his eyes for a moment, only to finally shake her head. "I can't. I just can't."

John raised his eyebrow. He could not fathom why she would refuse his help.

"Don't you understand? You're my...my...," she looked down, a stifling sob.

Staring at her, it dawned on him. "Boyfriend. You're embarrassed to have me look because I'm your boyfriend?" He lifted her chin again, forcing her to look at him. "Emma, I'm a doctor. I know you were hurt. I can help."

"I know," she whispered, making an attempt at a smile but failing. "Give me some time?"

Though suspicious of her reasons, John gave a nod. "Alright. How about you rest for now and we'll discuss this later? You can sleep in my room."

"No, John. She must remain close by." Sherlock said with finality. "Your room has window access from the back. An open invitation, if there ever was one."

"Then what do you suggest? She needs to rest. She can't just lie here on the sofa." He looked at his friend. "If not my room, then yours."

"Fine," Sherlock said with a dramatic sigh.

Arm wrapped around her waist, John led her to Sherlock's room. "Lie here," he directed her to Sherlock's bed, tucking her in once she had settled. "I'll give you something to help you sleep."

She shook her head violently.

John frowned. "You sure? You can sleep without anything?"

She nodded.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. I'll be out here, if you should need anything...anything at all." He smiled warmly, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

When he looked up, he saw Sherlock preparing to leave. "Where are you off to?" John called out, noticing a piece of paper in his hand.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock answered, still thinking.

"You...where are you going?" John repeated.

Sherlock glanced at the paper in his hand, noting the address scribbled on it. Neasden Lane, Neasden, NW10. "Not sure...," Sherlock mused. Leaving the address on the table near the door, he turned and left.


	7. Chapter 7

Staring at the door, John was lost in thought. Emma was resting in the other room and Sherlock had left without explanation for an address on Neasden Lane. Finally rousing himself, he realized he still had hold of the bedroom door handle. Slipping his fingers away, he walked towards the kitchen, then stopped. He had forgotten why he was heading that direction. He turned towards the sofa to sit down. He felt exhausted, but could not bring himself to sit. Walking past the sofa, he stopped again.

John sighed deeply. Though he was relieved to have Emma safe and within a few feet of him, something was still bothering him. Unfortunately, he could not figure out exactly what it was. He paced to the window, stopped and peered out. The streets were relatively quiet. In fact, the quiet was part of what was maddening to him. He needed to talk to someone, anyone, about the recent events. He needed to sort out every detail. With a growl, he paced back across the room.

John groaned. He began to understand Sherlock's need for medications. His mind was racing, and he was unable to stop it. One little pill could easily take all of that away, dull the mind and ease him into a temporary state of oblivion. He shook his head. Dr. John Watson was never one to resort to drugs for the solution to any problem. He resumed pacing.

Inspector Lestrade strapped himself securely in the car and raced towards the morgue. He had just received a cryptic text from Sherlock.

_It wasn't suicide._

Confused, Lestrade texted back, _What?_

_Neasdon Lane. It wasn't suicide._

Lestrade tried to ring Sherlock for more clarification. Receiving no answer, he decided to continue towards Neasdon Lane. On his way, an additional text from Sherlock came through.

_At morgue. Meet there._

With a growl of annoyance, Lestrade veered across traffic, changing direction. He was met with a chorus of horns, screeches and curses. He grimaced, ignoring any and all eyes on him as he kept driving. He was law enforcement, but there were times when he felt he was seen more as the enemy than protection. Arriving at the morgue, he sloppily parked the car and raced inside.

Lestrade pushed through the door into the ice cold room of the morgue, where he found Sherlock pacing next to a body. The body was partially exposed as the sheet had been pulled back from the head and neck. He expected the consulting detective to acknowledge him. That acknowledgement did not come.

Lestrade watched and waited. Sherlock appeared animated. _No, more than animated...agitated. _He was curious as to why the detective would be in such a state. Usually, he was in his element when it came to the discovery of a crime. In fact, it seemed at times he enjoyed it. _Sick,_ Lestrade thought to himself. He cleared his throat and swallowed. With a wince, he secretly wished he had passed on lunch. The heavy grease laden burger now felt like a rock in his stomach.

"Well?!" Lestrade snapped. There was no response.

Sherlock continued to pace rapidly beside table. His eyes were darting from side to side as he appeared to be processing information internally. Consumed by his thoughts, he ignored all outside stimulants at the moment. Lines were etched in his face. Lines of concern.

Lestrade was puzzled. He had known Sherlock for a long time, but never had he seen _that_ look on his face. He tried to run through possibilities in his head, playing the part of the detective, but he came up with only one possible thought. Sherlock was concerned for Emma. Lestrade became more confused. Sherlock was never one to fall in love, or have a relationship in general, for that matter.

His closest, human relationship was only recently started with Dr. John Watson. Rumours spread like wildfire when it became know that the two men had taken up sharing the rent at 221B Baker Street. And, as usual when Sherlock was involved, the rumours were not..._nice_. The inspector could not help but grin. They may not be appropriate rumours, but they were certainly amusing ones. Ones that he would draw on whenever the detective got under his skin, which was more often than not.

The room fell silent. Lestrade looked up, realising the sound of Sherlock's pacing had ceased. With the grin still on his lips, he found Sherlock staring at him with curiosity. Hoping to distract the detective, or at least to avoid questions, he nodded to the body.

"What was so damned important that I race down here?!" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock's eyes shone bright as he turned to face the body. "Ah, yes. The homicide."

"You say homicide, but the report has already been written up as suicide," Lestrade said while stepping next to the body, looking at Sherlock askance. He knew full well he was leaving an opening for one of Sherlock's snide remarks.

"And police reports are _never_ wrong," Sherlock quipped.

_And there it is._ Lestrade clenched his jaw in anger. Counting down from thirty, he finally gained control of his emotions. When he first met Sherlock, he had an outburst. With each successive meeting, he learned to maintain control through counting. First, it began with five, then ten. The longer he knew Sherlock, the more his time increased to keep cool.

He was Chief Inspector and deserved respect, but every time he dealt with the 'consulting detective', the outcome was always the same. _Did the man not understand respect? Does he even care?_ Lestrade sighed. It was a stupid question he already knew the answer to. Sherlock did not subscribe to common courtesies and niceties because he considered them time consuming and inefficient.

"Look, I appreciate your help and all, but..." The inspector waved a hand towards the body. "This is a closed case. The man shot himself in the head. Time of death was estimated at 48 hours ago."

Sherlock smirked, that familiar smug look coming over his face. He had information that no one else had. "True, he did shoot himself, but not by _his_ choice."

Lestrade scoffed. "So, you're saying that someone made him commit suicide? Doubt it. I can't imagine anyone forcing me to kill myself. If anyone wants me dead, they are gonna have to do it themselves."

"I would agree, as would, I'm sure, the victim here. Gabriel Henson, a family man. Married with two children, a young boy and girl. The family is not struggling financially, the wife claims there were no problems. He was living in this flat, away from his family, without evidence of any affair. I thought it odd he would prepare dinner, only to kill himself. A waste of food, if you ask me."

"What? Dinner?" Lestrade was confused.

"Yes, inspector. Dinner. The victim had dinner in the nuclear cooker." Sherlock walked around the head of the body, standing on the other side, facing Lestrade. "And see here, the victim was right handed, so it is appropriate that he shot himself in the right temple. Note the burned and blackened skin. And the discharge on his right hand."

"Yes, yes...we noticed all of that. Seems clear that _he_ committed suicide," the inspector said with impatience.

Sherlock shook his head. "You've missed one vital clue, or two, rather. Here." He turned the head away from Lestrade, in order to expose the back of the neck. Two small burn marks lay side by side with a radiating circle of erythema on the mid neck, near the base of the skull. "And here." He lifted the right arm, again pointed at two small burn marks on the back.

"What the-" Lestrade began.

"Taser," Sherlock explained. "The victim was incapacitated with the initial hit to the neck. Then, using his own weapon, which was tied to his hand. His muscle, the flexor digitorum profundus, was manipulated, causing his hand to flex and, subsequently, pull the trigger."

"You figured this out at his flat? The weapon tied to his hand?" the inspector asked incredulously.

"I had my suspicions, after finding trace rope fibers on his wrist. That, and his dinner." Sherlock responded. He stared at the face of the body, something obviously still on his mind.

"Dinner, right," Lestrade said with an eye roll. "Hey, how's John's girlfriend doing? I'll need to stop by and take her statement."

"Hmm? Oh, fine, fine," Sherlock murmured distractedly. "This man. He looks familiar..."

Molly entered the room, but only Lestrade looked in her direction. Giving a brief smile, he turned back towards Sherlock. "Familiar?"

"Molly!" Sherlock called out, startling the two. "Did this man have any personal effects when he was brought in?"

Molly Harper gave a shy smile and nodded. "Yes. I can get them for you, if you'd like. The family hasn't picked them up yet." She turned and left, returning a few minutes later with a small clear bag.

Sherlock snatched the bag quickly out of her hand and dumped the contents on a nearby, empty, examining table. Though startled by the movement, it was not unexpected by Molly. She had grown almost accustomed to his quirks. At times, she welcomed them. Though Sherlock often was curt, nearly hurtful, she knew it was unintentionally and forgave him for each infraction done her.

Sherlock spread the items out, noted the wallet with identification and family photograph, money, a small black book and a mobile phone. Picking up the phone, he called up the text messages.

While Sherlock was spinning through texts, from old to the most recent, Molly had picked up the black book and was leafing through it. She looked at the inspector, hoping to make small talk. "This man looks like a secret agent."

Lestrade grinned. "What? Because of the black suit and tie. Right." He shook his head. _She's seen too many movies._

Sherlock was busy reading and was not entirely paying attention.

"This is a log book. 'Bus to Kew Gardens.' Oh, that sounds lovely. John told me it was beautiful, though I don't wonder he was referring to her and not the garden," she said with a giggle as she flipped through more pages. "'Tapas Brindisa'. John mentioned it on his blog, but I've never tried it. He said it was a nice, casual place to eat. You went with him, didn't you Sherlock?" She paused.

Her words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock reached the last of the victim's messages.

_He wants to chat._

_I can't._

_He says NOW. Meet at____Convoys Wharf, 5pm._

_I can't!_

_Coming for you._

Receiving no response, Molly continued looking through the book, "This man has been around the city quite a bit. In fact, it seems he's been to a lot of the same places John has been to recently." She let out an uncomfortable laugh. "W-wouldn't it be funny if this man had actually been following John and Emma? Well, not funny-"

Sherlock's head jerked up at Molly, her words finally registering in his mind. "Molly, you're _brilliant_!" he exclaimed while ripping the black book from her hand. Rapidly, he turned each page, his eyes scanning the words. _Balcombe Street. Kew Gardens. 221B Baker Street. Tapas Brindisa. Pret A Manager._

"What is it? What's wrong?" Lestrade asked, glancing at Molly who gave a shrug.

"The stalker," Sherlock answered, though both Lestrade and Molly had no clue to what he was referring.

"I...," she began to ask quietly, but was afraid she might say something wrong.

"Sherlock, what do you mean 'the stalker'? Who's stalker, yours?" the inspector asked.

"Emma's...," Sherlock's mind whirled as he began sorting the information.

"Emma's kidnapper? You're saying _this_ is the guy?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Quiet! I need to think!" he demanded. Then, murmuring to himself, he ran over the clues. Suddenly, he was dialling his mobile phone. While rushing to the door, he said to Lestrade, "Take me to my flat. _Now_!"

John had finally settled down in one of the armchairs. Having brewed a pot of tea, he gingerly sipped at his cup, hoping the warmth of the liquid would give some peace to his still active mind. Hours had passed and the evening was drawing near. He had not heard from Sherlock. Curious as he was, it was nice to have some time alone.

Alone. He frowned at the thought. Being alone was one of his fears. Dying alone was another. He shook his head. _Stop it!_ he thought, chastising himself. Suddenly, his ears picked up the sound of soft moaning. He quickly put his cup down, tea splashing onto the table, and rushed into Sherlock's room.

Emma was curled in a fetal position, moaning in pain. John flew to her side, his eyes running over her body in search of any outward evidence of the cause of the pain. He saw nothing, but small, dried blood stains on her shirt.

"Emma, what is it? What's wrong?" he said in a hushed tone.

She moaned again, her arms wrapped around her abdomen. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead and her face looked flush. John placed the back of his hand against her skin. She was warm.

John cupped her face in his hand. "Emma." Her eyes were closed. "Emma, look at me." he insisted.

Through slitted eye lids, she looked at John. She tried to muster up a smile, but finished in another moan. She doubled up again.

"Emma, I need to get my bag. I'll be back in a moment, alright?" John said, the worry rising in his voice.

As soon as she gave an imperceptible nod, he dashed off and upstairs to retrieve his bag. When he reached the living room, he heard his mobile ringing. With only a brief hesitation, he passed by his phone and back into Sherlock's room to tend to Emma.

She had just come from the loo, the sound of rushing water indicating she had recently vomited. Her face was now damp from sweat. Weakly, she slipped back into the bed. John helped cover her with one sheet. She protested, wanting more.

John's mobile began ringing again from the other room. He glanced at the door, then back at his girlfriend. "Emma, you have a fever. Piling on additional blankets will only make it worse. Do you need Zofran? Lorazepam? We need to get your fever down, but we first have to control the vomiting."

John grabbed the bottle of Zofran he had in his bag for emergencies. He handed her a pill, then, as an afterthought, ran to the kitchen to get her a cup of water. When he returned, she had already swallowed the pill.

"Emma, you _need_ to have me look at your injuries. If you are running a fever-" he began to insist, but stopped when he heard his mobile ring again. "Can no one take a hint?!" he grumbled to himself.

Emma gave a small nod of agreement. "Alright, John," came the feeble whisper.

John looked back at Emma, gently pushing away strands of hair from her face. His heart swelling at seeing her. He had been so worried that something terrible might have happened. Here, in front of him, an indescribable feeling overcame him. He quickly wiped away a few tears that had escaped, hoping she had not noticed.

John's mobile began ringing again. John growled in anger.

"John, answer your phone. Then come back afterwards." She attempted a weak smile. "Go..." she insisted.

"Alright, but I'm not staying on the phone. Nothing is more important than you." He stood up and slipped out the door. His mobile was on the table by the window. When he glanced at it, he sighed heavily. _Sherlock. Of course._

Wanting to give a bit of his own medicine, John was prepared to answer as Sherlock often did, with 'What, Sherlock'. Suddenly, a sharp, burning pain hit the base of his neck and a buzzing sensation shot through him. Every muscle in his body seized up. Immediately, he lost his balance and fell sideways, crashing onto the floor painfully. Though he groaned from the fall, he could not bring himself to move. His brain was screaming instructions, but his body either would not or could not comply.

Movement told John his assailant was still behind him. _Emma, no, oh God, no!_ John's only concern was to try and regain movement. Emma was weak and vulnerable. She was in grave danger and he could do nothing. The feeling of helplessness was claustrophobic. But there was hope. He felt the tips of his fingers move, or at least he thought they were moving.

Unfortunately, John did not have time to work on any additional muscles. A hand grazed passed his cheek. In the hand was a cloth that reeked of a familiar chemical. _Chloroform!_ He tried to fight, but his head would not move. The cloth was gently placed over his nose and mouth. He had no choice but to breathe in the toxic vapors. As the chemical invaded his body, his vision grew blurry, and all he could think of was the danger to his girlfriend in the other room. Within minutes, he was unconscious.

Sherlock and Lestrade rushed into the living room of 221B Baker Street. The flat was eerily quiet. Sherlock slowed to a halt by the window. Lestrade ran to the kitchen: empty. Passing quickly through the living room, he looked into Sherlock's bedroom. The covers were pulled back on the bed. No one was in the room. He turned and bolted up the stairs, pushing John's door open. Nothing. Lestrade ran back down stairs. Even Mrs. Hudson was not home.

Returning to Sherlock's side, breathlessly he said, "There's no sign of them."

Sherlock stood motionless.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out, curious as to why he had not said a word since they arrived. Stepping next to the detective, he noticed a laptop on the desk. "John's?" he asked.

Sherlock gave a nod. "Read it."

Lestrade leaned in close, squinting slightly as he read the familiar site of John Watson's blog.

_John Watson's Blog_  
><em>July 4, 2011<em>

_Thought I would pop on for a moment. John is in good hands. *Very* good hands._

_To Sherlock,_

_Don't bother looking for him. I'm sure you will ignore that request and look anyway. Just know, I will make you regret that decision, should you choose to 'rescue' your flatmate. He's mine. I own him._

_For that matter, I own you as well. For all of your logical and 'keep at a distance' attitude, you are still easily manipulated._


	8. Chapter 8

The subtle wave of the roof and muffled whoosh gave evidence of the wind outside. In the dimly lit tent, the silhouette of a shape could be seen lying on a cot. Other furniture included a small wooden folding chair and table. The only sources of light were the hazy glow of a lantern and the glare from the screen of a laptop. The remaining areas were covered in shadows.

The shape on the cot was of a man, unconscious. He had been so for quite some time. He was alive and breathing deeply. A blanket had been tossed, with little care, over his body. In front of him, his hands were turned so the backs were touching and bound tightly with a heavy duty cable tie.

The snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves outside broke the silence. The man remained asleep and did not stir. A white mask pushed through the flap of the tent, seemingly floating. Immediately following was a slender shape, clad in all black clothes. The figure only required to bend slightly in order to enter. The unknown arrival approached the cot, hovering over the sleeping man. The head tilted as if observing for a few minutes.

"Dr. Watson," the kidnapper called out in a smooth New Orleans inflection.

As the figure squatted down, a beam from the lantern traced up the black clad body, which could easily blend in with the shadows. In contrast, the stark white mask, with a faint impression of unsmiling lips, seemed spectral amongst the darkness. Bright blue eyes peered out from behind.

A hand caressed the man's forehead. Brushing strands of hair back, the fingers traced down the side of his face and jaw line. With a firm pat on the cheek, the kidnapper slapped the sleeping figure and said in a soft syrupy tone, "Dr. Watson." When the man stirred, but did not wake, the kidnapper leaned in close and whispered, "John."

Opening his eyes, his vision was momentarily out of focus. He felt disoriented. _Where am I? _His mouth and nose felt sore, as if he had been burned. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his head, followed by a brief bout of nausea. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember. _I've been kidnapped! _He recalled the attack, knew all of his symptoms were from the effects of the chloroform.

Remaining still, he tried to gather his thoughts and focus on his senses. _Separate your emotion. Think!_ he commanded himself. He realised he was in a tent, dark most likely because it was night. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the wooded area and nearby campfire. There was another scent, vaguely familiar, yet he could not place it.

He moved to sit up, but the pain caused him to hold his head in his hands. That was when he noticed he had been bound. He felt fingers caress his face and jolted back violently. He was breathing hard.

"W-where's Emma?! What's going on?!" he spat out.

"Not. Here," came the matter-of-fact reply.

"What have you done with her?!" he shouted.

The mask hid any facial features of the kidnapper, but the sound of a soft sigh was clear.

"I've done nothing to her. I only wanted _you_," was the sinister reply.

The kidnapper remained at John's eye level, watching him with curiosity. Though John may have been fearful for his life, he appeared anything but afraid. His eyes showed defiance. The kidnapper found it fascinating. This was the same man under observation over the past several months. It was amazing to find how quickly a person might change, depending on the circumstances.

John was taken aback by the situation he now found himself in. Regaining composure, he sat up straight on the cot. _Why is he staring at me like that? _John was not entirely sure of who was in front of him. At the moment, he could not even tell whether the person was male or female.

"What do you want from me?!" he demanded.

With cat-like ease, the kidnapper began to rise, leaning towards him. John raised his eyes to follow, but cringed at the proximity.

"_Holmes_," was hissed near his ear.

John felt chills run down his spine. He swallowed hard.

"Well, obviously I'm not Sherlock," he said snidely. "Y-you must be aware of _who_ I am, right?"

"Oh, I am _well_ aware of who you are, Dr. Watson." A soft chuckle emanated from behind the mask.

"Then who the hell are you?!" he snapped.

The kidnapper paused. John could see a pair of familiar blue eyes, looking directly at him. _Where have I seen those eyes before?_

Finally, the answer came, "Careen."

Seconds passed as John stared at her. He blinked. He had not heard her. In actuality, it took some time for the name to sink in. Spinning from the effects of the drug, he felt a persistent fog that refused to lift from his mind. _Careen? _John frowned, a puzzled look coming over his face. He had never heard of her before. In the short time he had known Sherlock, that name was never mentioned. Suddenly, he felt fingers run through his hair. Shaking his head loose, he angrily looked at her.

"Stop it!" he snapped.

She slid up next to him on the cot. "John..." she whispered, in a tone not unlike a southern belle. "You are in _no_ position to give orders."

John swallowed hard. There was something in her voice that warned him to tread carefully. Thus far, he had been rather brazen, considering his situation. He glanced down at the cable tie that was tightly around his wrists. _If she restrained me, stands to reason she is armed._

"You, and your _friends_, have been playing so easily into my hands. Would you stop playing now?" She sounded as if she were feigning a pout.

"I? We played into your hands?" he was confused, partly from the chloroform still wearing off. "The blogger. _You_ are the anonymous blogger?"

"My but aren't _you_ the smart one. Sherlock chastises you for being led by your heart. I find that a rather attractive quality, considering how it has benefited me so." Her eyes looked hungrily at him. He recoiled from her stare.

"Brilliant. _You_ find that attractive," John grumbled. He glanced around. From what he could see, there was only the one kidnapper, Careen, and one way out of the tent. Through the break in the flap, he could make out what looked like a flickering campfire.

Careen laughed softly, running her hand along the side of his face. He jerk away from her touch.

"Take heart, Dr. Watson. You've _all_ 'played into my hands' as it were." She chuckled as she began to slip on a pair of latex gloves.

"W-what was that? All?" he stammered, believing he misheard. He was hoping he could keep her engaged while working on a plan of escape. The sight of the surgical gloves concerned him. _At least she didn't bind my legs, _he thought.

"Silly boys. You don't realise it, do you?" she said, the sound in her voice similar to the smug attitude Sherlock often showed when he had solved a case.

"Realise what now, exactly?" he asked as he cautiously tested the tie.

"All of you, as a whole, have been my target," she answered, placing a gloved hand on his thigh and giving it a squeeze. John felt revulsion at the touch.

He prodded her, "I-I don't understand. Target?"

"Oh, my, you really _don't_ know, do you? Well, you'll have to speak with Sherlock as I'm sure he's figured it out by now." She stood up, pausing to look at him. Then, she turned to sit down in front of the laptop to begin typing. "Do not fret, dear Dr. Watson. Striking _you _down at the moment would merely serve to spur the others on. What would be the point? Unless..."

"Unless we were both out of the picture. So, _that_ is the reason I'm here? To lure Sherlock to come rescue me?!"John deduced, sounding almost indignant at the last part. He needed to get out of there, to warn Sherlock. The cable tie was too tight to wiggle out. It was then that he recalled having a small knife in his pocket. Adjusting as he sat, he frowned. It was gone.

She did not reply, tapping on a few more keys. Video feed jumped onto the screen.

"Brilliant," she said in a hushed tone.

John paused for a moment, squinting his eyes to have a better look at the screen. _Was that Sherlock?_

"But what would you hope to gain?" Looking around for another means to escape, his eyes caught the familiar shape of an automatic. The gun was tucked inside the laptop case that was leaning against the back of her chair.

She glanced at him, then moved the laptop, giving John a better view of what appeared to be Sherlock in their flat. "Unimpeded experimentation."

John glanced at her, his lips twitching into a smile. _Why on Earth am I smiling?_ he groaned to himself. He knew it was merely a nervous habit, but he still felt like an idiot for doing so. Once she looked away, his eyes fell on the automatic. Hoping to keep her distracted, he said, "I don't follow."

Careen remained engrossed in the video. "You started as a mere social experiment. Something to keep me occupied while watching Sherlock. Unfortunately, my _employer_ had put limits on what I could do. I don't much care for limits," she ended in a faint hiss.

"Employer?" John slid quietly along the cot, closer to the gun. Careen remained fixated on the screen.

She ignored the question. "I could tell Sherlock was suspicious of me. In fact, since the first time we met, he tried to follow me. Each ended in failure."

The automatic was within reach. In one fluid motion, John raised his arms, moving them back down hard towards his abdomen. He pushed his shoulder blades back as if to touch. The restraints cut into his skin, causing a trickle of blood down his arm. Under the momentum and force, the cable tie snapped. Careen spun around at the sound of movement. It was too late. John had managed to grab the gun, chamber a round and raise it to her eye level.

Careen's eyes only briefly acknowledged the weapon between them. Though she seemed unphased, her body visibly tensed. After an awkward pause, she resumed speaking.

"Think of it...Sherlock and Mycroft, two of the most brilliant minds in England. I want to study both of them. But, I _could_ be convinced to settle for one."

With bright mischievous eyes she asked in an excited whisper, "So tell me, John. If you could save one of the Holmes brothers, which one would it be?"

John stared at the white mask, not bothering to respond.

"Oh, come now, Dr. Watson. Surely you have an answer it out," she pushed.

John shook his head. "No. I won't help you. But _you..._" He shook the gun slightly at her. "_You _will help me. After you..." He nodded in the direction of the flap. _This seems too easy. What's her game?_

She continued to press him, ignoring his threat. "My guess? Sherlock. You two are very-"

"Stop!" he snapped at her. She was getting under his skin.

She laughed as she turned back to the laptop. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed one leg smoothly over the other. The movement caught John's attention. He narrowed his eyes. The same familiar feeling returned to vex him.

She noticed and asked dryly, "See anything you like?"

John barely shook his head and cleared his throat. "No," he replied tersely. Still pointing the weapon at her, he commanded, "Get up."

She turned back to the laptop, tapping the touchpad a few times. "I'm curious, Dr. Watson. Doesn't that _nagging _feeling at the back of your mind bother you?" she asked quietly, as she uncrossed her legs purposely, slipped out of her chair and stood facing John.

_How could she possibly know? _Though he could not read her face, her eyes held a cold, calculating look. He was amazed that, despite the presence of the weapon, she did not seem to be concerned. His finger tensed on the trigger. John then realised the opportunity to take the gun might very well have been a setup.

On guard for any sudden attack, he nodded towards the tent flap, ready to follow behind her. "_Move_," he said.

Raising her hands in surrender, Careen turned on her heels and left the tent. Her movements were so quick, the flap of the tent shut before John could follow behind. He cursed to himself and followed as fast as possible.

As he expected, Careen had crouched just outside. She spun on one leg, while the other stretched out and hit him, knocking him off his feet. John fell, the gun nearly tumbled out of his hand. The wind was pushed from his lungs. His mind was in a whirl and he felt lightheaded from the action. Still, he held tight to the weapon. On his back, he swung the gun towards Careen. He snap fired and barely missed. Careen grunted as she scrambled out of the line of fire. Vision still blurred, John fired again and missed. Careen had rolled away, then quickly lunged on top of him. Her hands gripped tightly around his wrists, preventing him from aiming. He strained to free himself, inadvertently firing another shot.

The two bodies rolled on the forest floor. Their clothes picking up twigs, leaves and mud as they struggled for power. Grunts and cries echoed on the wind and through the trees. John broke one hand free and punched his assailant hard in the abdomen. She cried out, followed by a growl of frustration.

With renewed vigor, Careen kicked John near the groin area. Stars exploded in his field of vision as the pain hit and he fell to the ground. She grasped the hand holding the gun and slammed it down against the ground. When he did not let go, she lifted again, this time hitting his wrist over a nearby broken branch. Searing pain caused him to release his grip. Within seconds, he felt the butt of the weapon slam against his temple. More stars and colors burst in front of his eyes. His ears pounded as blood pumped furiously through his body.

He rolled onto his hands and knees. He held his breath, trying to recover, his groin still throbbing. His field of vision was hazy as blood dripped from the fresh head wound. Impatiently he wiped away the fluid from his eyes and spun around, looking for Careen. She was moving to stand, the gun in her grasp. He stumbled onto his feet and unsteadily charged her, knocking her back down onto the ground. The gun slid from her hand.

Careen cursed and screamed. In a fit of rage, she gripped his hair, yanking hard. John cried out as hair was pulled from around the gash in his head. Furious at the turn of events, she began to wildly kick and punch him. He tried to fend her off and throw a few punches, but the added head injury, along with feeling weak, left him at a disadvantage. When his vision finally cleared enough, the last thing he saw was Careen swing a thick branch at his head. John felt it slam into the side of his head. Immediately, he was blinded. He began to panic. He had enraged the kidnapper. The weight of her body lifted, indicating she was either sitting next to him or standing over him.

As he lay on the forest floor, he tried to concentrate, but the severe pain made it difficult. He shivered as a light drizzle began to fall. He heard the hiss of the campfire as drops of water hit it. The crunch of leaves led him to believe that Careen was leaving, only to hear her return again.

Suddenly, a loud bang startled him. He cried out, pain burned like fire in his side. He tried to see the injury, but his sight had not returned. All he could do was feel the warmth of his blood spilling out. _This can't be happening. _The feeling of hopelessness began to take over him.

"Tsk, tsk," Careen said in syrupy sweetness, though slightly breathless. "That behavior was rather...unbecoming. We have underestimated each other. Kudos to you, Dr. Watson."

He heard her pass by his head and away from him. John rolled onto his uninjured side and tried to stand. After a few attempts, he fell onto his back. Heaving, he tried to calm his mind. _I'll will get out of this. I will!_ he encouraged himself. As he was attempting to move again, Careen's footsteps sounded over the leaves.

"My, but aren't you a sad sight," she said, chuckling. "Allow me to put you somewhat at ease. I know exactly where to aim to ensure no fatality. I assure you, you'll live," she said sardonically. "Dr. Watson, I do believe we will have a _great_ deal of fun. Good night." With those last words, he felt a needle prick in his arm, followed immediately by unconsciousness.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called out.

Sherlock had been staring at the screen of the laptop. It had taken seconds to read the blog, yet his eyes remained on the last entry. His flatmate, John Watson, had been kidnapped. At that moment, he had no clues, nothing to follow in order to locate John.

"Sherlock, what now?" Lestrade asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock jerked at the touch. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts he had purposely blocked out Lestrade's annoying voice. He looked at the inspector, but said nothing.

No words were needed as far as Lestrade was concerned. He had never seen that look on Sherlock's face before and he hoped to never see it again. Sherlock was at a loss. The kidnapper that had taken Emma had been killed, so they were now at a dead end.

"Who would have kidnapped him? And _why_?" Lestrade said aloud.

"The anonymous blogger," Sherlock said.

"After the incident with your revolver and the blog, we tried to trace the source, but came up empty," Lestrade explained.

"Toll roads? Highways?" Sherlock asked with an air of impatience.

"I have a call out, but nothing yet," Lestrade said, embarrassed he had not done more.

Sherlock took out his cell phone and dialled.

"Mycroft!"

"Sherlock."

"I need video feeds of the tolls roads surrounding London within the last twenty-four hours," Sherlock said rapidly.

"Problem?" Mycroft asked, sounding as if he were bored.

"John has been kidnapped," Sherlock answered.

"Oh dear. Might I also recommend-," Mycroft said with considerably less energy than his brother.

"Satellite," Sherlock deduced.

"Precisely. Does John have his mobile?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock glanced around. "Possibly. GPS."

"Of course. Give me ten minutes," Mycroft replied.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock began to argue.

"Sherlock, I cannot be at your beck and call every time you have a crisis. Ten minutes. You can wait," Mycroft stated.

"He may not have such luxury," Sherlock said seriously.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Honestly, Sherlock. _Must_ you be so dramatic. If my suspicions are correct, and they always are, he is fine for the moment."

"Suspicions?" Sherlock asked in annoyance.

"Later, _dear_ brother," and he hung up.

Sherlock growled in frustration. Mycroft's smug attitude always irked him. As if he were trying to prove he was more intelligent. He paced wildly about the room. Lestrade grew tired of watching and sat down to wait. The ten minutes seemed to creep by.

At last Sherlock's mobile rang. "Yes," Sherlock answered.

"John's mobile is located in Epping Forest, twenty minutes North of you. Trees are obscuring the satellite view of the final location, but the car, a black Volvo S60, was spotted heading that direction."

"Thank you," Sherlock said and was about to hang up when Mycroft continued.

"Sherlock, if the kidnapper is who I suspect, be prepared for a highly skilled opponent," Mycroft warned.

"When I return, we need to talk," Sherlock answered back, his voice tense.

"Of course. I will be at your flat in the morning," Mycroft said nonchalantly.

Sherlock shoved his mobile in his pocket and raced out the door. Taking Lestrade's car, the two men drove as quickly as possible to the location where John Watson had been taken. Using coordinates from Mycroft, the Garmin unit estimated the ride at twenty two minutes. Lestrade got them there in eighteen.

When John came to, his head and side were both throbbing. He moaned from the pain, rolling onto his side. He could feel a new tie around his wrists. He opened his eyes. Relief partially washed over him. He could see. He quickly began to assess his current state. His shirt had been ripped open. The wound was on his side, but he could not make out the severity. Careen had bandaged him. _Great. The psychopath wants me healthy._

He needed to escape, and soon. He tried to sit up. The movement caused the world around him to spin. He closed his eyes, trying to force his mind to clear and focus. When he turned, his hands stopped. The tie around his wrists was connected to a second tie that was around the metal frame of the cot. His mind immediately cleared.

He tried to break the tie like he had done previously. The muscles and tendons in his arms ached. His wrists raw from his recent attempt to leave. Though his pain was severe, his desire to escape gave him the motivation he needed. He pulled and tugged, but the tie would not break. He did not have the strength.

A snap of a twig caused him to freeze. _Is she coming back?_ He held his breath, listening. No other sounds could be heard. Taking that as a sign, he looked back down at his dilemma. If the tie would not break, he would have to work on the cot.

Kneeling down next to the cot, the frame appeared to be made from a light aluminum that would most likely bend easily under pressure. Bracing the cot between his legs, he grunted softly as he pushed to bend the metal one way. At last, it gave way and began to bend. He pushed hard the opposite direction, his wrists aching and throbbing all the while. The metal slowly gave, a faint crease appearing across the bar. He winced, pushing back the other direction. He exhaled a breath. Taking another deep breath, he moved the bar. It was becoming easier as the metal folded and began to break. At last, the bar broke, allowing him to slip the one tie out.

The opening and shutting of a car door could be heard. His kidnapper was returning. Still bound at the wrists, he scanned the tent for a weapon. Seeing Carren's camp stool nearby, John gripped it tightly. Looking at the tent flap, a thin line of sunlight peeked in. _How long have I been here? A few hours? A day?_ Standing up hastily, he immediately felt lightheaded and had to stop and steady himself. He knew she had given him an additional unknown drug.

Gingerly stepping towards the flap of the tent, he peered out. She was setting up the laptop in the car. He looked down. There were sticks and leaves everywhere. It would be impossible for him to leave undetected. With a sigh, he retreated back inside the tent. He spun around, looking for another solution. _There has to be a way to get out of this!_

The crunching and snapping signaled she might be returning. He glanced around. The only weapon he had was the stool. He shrugged. _Better than nothing. _He waited. When Careen opened the flap, John swung hard, hitting her square in the chest. As she doubled over, he moved the bar hard up, slamming into her neck. She gasped and coughed, stumbling back outside.

John followed quickly. Before she had time to recover, he swung again, smacking the back of her knee. Careen cried out in pain. Her leg gave way and she fell to the ground. John was feeling encouraged. He hit her over the back. Her body hit the dirt hard. She struggled to get up only to have John hit her again. Lying in the dirt, he could hear her groaning in pain, her arms and legs moving, though slowly. She was trying to crawl away.

John stepped on her fingers. "Stop," he commanded her, struggling to control his breathing.

Careen froze. Her body began to tremble and John could hear the faint sounds of sobbing, muffled by the mask. He had a momentary twinge of empathy for her, but quickly pushed it aside. _This might be a trick._

"Remove the mask," he demanded, stepping off of her hand. She did not move. "_Now!_" he shouted at her. She jumped and her hands began to move slowly to the back of her head. John did his best to remain steady, through the pain throbbed in his head and side, and numerous other places on his body.

Careen's fingers visible shook as she struggled to remove the ties from the mask. After a few moment of failed attempts, she cried, "I can't!"

"Do it, or I _motivate _you to do it," John said as he stepped back to give some distance between them.

Careen struggled to her feet, her posture less confident than before. Her mask was facing towards the ground, her fingers fumbling at the straps. At that moment, John began to realise that the only weapon in his hand was the bar from the cot, and his wrists were still bound. He was still at a disadvantage. As if on the same wavelength, he could see Careen's head slowly raise to look at him. The white mask unnerved him. His eyes darted as he saw her hand slip behind her. _The gun,_ he thought and quickly charged her, swinging the chair hard towards her head. _Woosh!_ The stool scraped the top of her head as she ducked and rolled.

A feeling of dread hit the pit of his stomach. He heard rustling from behind and turned to be met with a sharp blow to the side of his face. The world temporarily spun as he staggered back, the camp chair falling from his grasp. Careen growled from behind the mask, advancing. She hit him in the solar plexus, causing him to double over, gasping for air.

"This will be the _last_ time you catch me by surprise, _John_," she hissed. Pushing him hard, she caused John to fall at her feet. On all fours, he heaved. His muscles were sore from the blow. His gunshot wound was aching. His head felt on fire. He dared not look at her. She was angry. _Maybe she doesn't have the gun, maybe it was lost in the struggle, _he thought hopefully. Then he heard the familiar slide-click as a round was chambered. He closed his eyes and cursed.

"I would give you a fighting chance, allow you to escape and live, but what would be the point? No doubt someone will threaten your life and Sherlock will _always_ come to save you. Why? Because poor Dr. John Watson is incapable of taking care of himself!" She laughed, but her tone sounded bitter.

John's hands clenched over dirt, sticks and leaves. He waited as Careen spoke to him. The more she complained of Sherlock, the lower she held the weapon, until it was finally pointing towards the ground. She had squatted down to have a better look at John and that was when he took his opportunity.

John lifted both hands, full of dirt and debris, and threw them squarely at the mask. Careen screamed in frustration, turning away. John took hold of a rock and hit her hard on the back of the head. She staggered, turning and wildly aiming the gun. Taking his chance, he ran into the heavily wooded area as fast as his wounds would allow him. She still could not see. Hearing him run, Careen held the gun in that direction. She fired, but missed. _Tzing. _She tried to shoot again, but her aim was still hindered. _Tzing. _The bullet hit the ground near him. Her eyesight was improving.

John wished for his mobile. He needed to phone Sherlock and the police. There was something unique in her movements. She was an experienced fighter. He knew he had a good chance of hiding within the cover of the forest, making his way back to the road and hopefully for help.

As John ran away, he did not look back. If he had, he would have seen the face of his kidnapper, Careen, as she ripped the mask from her face to clean off the dirt from her eyes. Her primal scream echoed in the woods, chilling him to the bone. He hoped to never run across her again, though he was certain he would.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted.

Lestrade swerved. Tires squealed and gravel crunched as the car slid to a stop. "We still have another few miles," he protested.

Sherlock stepped out of the car, waiting. _Crack_. Another shot rang out, echoing across the forest. "There! Did you hear it?"

"Yeah. John?" Lestrade asked.

"More than likely. Drive slowly a few miles up, then turn and come back this way. Remain on this road and keep an eye out." Sherlock slammed the door shut and jogged around the car towards the wooded area.

"Where are you going?!" Lestrade shouted.

"To find our kidnapper!" Sherlock answered as he broke into a run. "Do _not_ come looking for me. Keep John with you."

"No!" Lestrade followed behind Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and stared at the inspector. "Look, backup is coming. I'll radio for one of them to man the road. _I'm_ coming with you."

Sherlock hesitated briefly, then gave a nod and the two set off to find the kidnapper. As they ran, Lestrade called in to have officers patrol the roads. He also asked for medics to station themselves near where he had left his car.

The Officer Davis drove down the road as instructed by Inspector Lestrade. He grumbled to himself, feeling he was on babysitting duty rather than actual work. He yawned. _At least I'm getting paid for this. _

The road was a long empty stretch. The officer rubbed his sore eyes and blinked a few times. He normally wore glasses, but on this particular day, he decided to try out his new contact lenses. The uncomfortable feeling of _something_ in his eye was nearly driving him crazy. He applied and reapplied moisture drops, to no available. The foreign objects still bothered him.

Trying not to think of the little annoyances in his eyes, he looked down the road. In the distance, he thought he could make out someone on the side of the road. Blinking and squinting, he strained his eyes, but had no clue if it was really a person or an old tree stump.

Increasing the car's speed, the object grew larger as he approached. He realised it was a man walking, or rather limping, along the side of the road. He could only assume it was the man he was instructed to look for.

"Dr. Watson?!" he shouted.

Tenderly, John winced as he turned and managed a small wave. Once the officer pulled up next to him, John leaned against the car. He was obviously out of breath. Finally, he asked, "Where's Sherlock?"

The officer nodded towards the forest. "Gone to have a look at the kidnapper, along with Inspector Lestrade."

"What? No!" John groaned, his eyes closing and his head falling back in frustration.

"Why? What's wrong?" the man asked.

He looked back at the officer and sighed. "The kidnapper, she'll be waiting for him. She _is_ waiting for him," he said as he turned back the way he had come.

"Wait! Dr. Watson!" The officer parked the car and rushed out, stopping John. "Mr. Holmes said-"

"I don't give a damn what he said. He has no idea what he's in for!" John shouted.

"Sir, my instructions were to keep you here, _no matter what_," he explained. "The medics are on their way."

John turned back the way he'd come. He needed to help his friend, to warn him.

"Dr. Watson, he said for you to stay here!" the officer shouted.

John stopped and glanced back at him.

"Besides..." the office continued, pointing at John's shirt. "...you are in no condition to help."

John clenched his teeth. He debated whether he should listen to his friend, or ignore him. He decided to ignore him. "Sorry," he said with a shrug and turned back in the direction of the kidnapper and Sherlock. At that moment, the medics arrived.

The man placed a firm hand on John's shoulder. "My orders were clear, sir. It will cost me my job," he explained.

The emergency team ran up, took hold of John's arms and led him to the ambulance. From there, the initial assessment had begun. John finally gave in to the toll on his body from the running, the anxiety and the injuries. He crumpled into a heap of exhaustion.

Lestrade had caught up to Sherlock. Looking into the woods ahead, the two could barely make out the outline of a tent and a car. They looked at each other.

"Where is the kidnapper?" Lestrade said in as quiet a whisper as possible.

Careen stepped from the tent and stretched. There was nothing evident in her posture or actions to indicate anything had occurred. If it had not been for the strange clothing and mask, she would have looked like a typical camper within Epping Forest. Strolling casually to her car, she opened the boot and placed a few items inside before returning to the tent.

"A woman," Sherlock deduced from the kidnapper's gait. "Stay here."

Lestrade was about to challenge him when Sherlock quickly stole away towards the tent. Lestrade remained a distance behind, providing backup. The inspector noticed that as Sherlock drew closer to the campsite, his steps became more slow and determined. When he reached the tent, Sherlock waved Lestrade to move towards the side, while he headed for the front.

When Sherlock entered, he saw a large empty space occupied only by a white masked figure dressed in black. She stood in the far corner, waiting. The tent was tall enough to allow him to stand up to his full height and face the kidnapper.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Dr. Watson hasn't told you?" she said in her New Orlean's accent. "Careen."

"American," Sherlock deduced.

She laughed. "Perhaps. But then, you've been wrong before."

Sherlock frowned.

"Aww, have I struck a nerve? Oh, that's right. Sherlock is _never_ wrong. Because 'no one can compete with'...what was it?" she appeared to think for a moment. "Ah, I remember. 'No one can compete with my massive intellect.'"

Sherlock said nothing.

She stepped closer, her arms open in invitation. "Shall we _dance_?" she asked in a more sinister tone.

Suddenly, a loud noise came from the right, outside of the tent wall. Lestrade cried out in surprise. A flash grenade had detonated as his left foot caught and pulled a trip wire. Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Sherlock charged her, but Careen was ready, hitting him hard in the chest. He coughed and gasped, stumbling out of the tent. Sherlock blocked her next strike and took hold of her arm. In a counterclockwise move, he pulled her onto his back, his right leg sweeping her feet off of the ground. Twisting his body, he threw her over his shoulder and slammed her down hard. She grunted as air was forced from her lungs.

Seeing the two struggling, Lestrade took a deep breath ignoring the ringing in his ears and shouted over the radio. "Attention all units. Man down. Back up needed, _now_!"

Careen swung her legs around, scrambling back to her feet. Sherlock rushed her, hitting the back of her neck with a hard chop of his hand. She staggered, then fell to the ground. In a modified scissor kick, she swung her body around, pushing against his legs. Sherlock was unbalanced and fell into the tent, causing it to crashed down around him. He failed urgently, trying to escape the entangling cloth. Pushing through the flap and finally free, he saw Careen in the car. He bolted forward, hoping to stop her, but she stomped on the accelerator, tearing off down the dirt road. Sherlock growled in frustration.

"She's headed to the main road! Stop her!" Lestrade instructed breathlessly over the radio. He looked over to find Sherlock, who was pacing madly like a tiger. Just beyond the perimeter, the inspector noticed what he should have before, booby-traps. "White mask, all black. She'll most likely take off the mask, but she will be in black. Look for a black Volvo S60."

A few minutes ticked by. Then the radioed response, "No sign of her, sir. Has she left your area? We haven't seen her."

"What?!" he sat up, shouting into the radio. "Repeat! Did you say you didn't see her?! Did you see _anyone_? Were you even looking?!" he snapped. There was a pause.

"No, sir. No sighting of a woman, no black Volvo," said the officer.

Lestrade screamed in frustration.

"Sir? Dr. Watson has been taken to the hospital," the officer finished.

Lestrade lifted the radio to his mouth, "We need a bomb squad, _now._ And bring the team up here. We will need to process the scene once it's clear." He placed the radio on his belt and glanced at the detective. "Need a lift?"


	9. Chapter 9

John had been in a hospital bed in one of the private rooms for hours. He had tried to explain that his injuries were superficial, but no one would listen. The police officer assigned to protect him sat in a chair just outside his hospital room. The woman was brusque when taking his statement. John wondered if he was being viewed as weak, having been kidnapped, drugged and shot by a woman.

_She isn't just any woman, _John mused. Careen was intelligent, experienced and prepared. He was thankful he had been able to escape. His one regret was his failure to demask her. How would he know who she was? She could be anyone: a random passerby on the street, even a hospital nurse. _Her voice_. John would never forget that syrupy sweet American accent. If he ever heard it again, he would know it was her.

Staring at the white wall next to his bed, he was debating leaving against medical advice. He was not entirely sure that was possible. Everyone seemed adamant that he remain in the room. _I can manage on my own._ Even if he wanted to leave, he was not sure the officer would allow him to do so without approval. So engrossing in his thoughts, John had not noticed someone entering the room.

Finally, after a few minutes, a throat cleared, calling John's attention. He turned his head to see Sherlock, standing near the doorway, looking somewhat at a loss. John could not help but smile at the familiar face.

Sherlock looked over his friend, obviously evaluating his state. "I'm fine, Sherlock. It's a minor gunshot wound," John said, hoping to reassure his friend.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered back, strolling around the room.

"She knew," John continued. "She drugged me, _twice_. She said the wound wasn't fatal. She knew _exactly _where to shoot me. When I was unconscious, she cleaned, sutured and bandaged it. Sherlock, she must be a physician or someone in the medical field."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Careen," he murmured.

John struggled on the bed, sitting up. "Yeah, Careen. Do you know her? I don't recognise the name."

Sherlock shook his head. He looked back at John. "Nice to see you can handle things without me."

John frowned, obviously taking offense. "I'm not an invalid," John said defensively.

"Never said you were," Sherlock replied, walking back to the doorway and glancing down the hall.

"But you were implying-" John argued.

"Nothing. I am implying nothing," came Sherlock's curt reply.

"Ok, but if you were-"John challenged.

"I'm not," Sherlock replied with finality.

The two stared at each other for a moment. Finally satisfied, they dropped the subject. "Care to escape yet again?" Sherlock said with a grin.

"Yes, _please_ get me out of here. They won't listen! I'm fine. It was a through and through. No vital organs were damaged. I told them-" John began to rattle off, only to be interrupted.

"John, would you like to leave _now_ or hours later when you've finished your rant?" Sherlock asked, glancing back down the hallway. The previous officer had left, the new one taking his time before taking up post outside of John's door.

John flushed with embarrassment. "Now," he said quietly.

Sherlock tossed clothes at John. "Get dressed. We leave in five."

The ride back to 221B Baker Street was a quiet one. John was worried about Emma. He tried to catch Sherlock's attention, but it seemed his friend was rather upset and was avoiding eye contact all together. John noted the troubled look on Sherlock's face. He was confused by it. _Is he actually concerned for Emma? Does he have feelings for her that I wasn't aware of? That can't be possible._ John struggled internally to understand his friend's motivation. Frustrated, he sat back in his seat, his mind whirling at the number of unknowns, including where Emma was and if she were safe.

Sherlock texted Mycroft. _Meet now. 221B. Re: C_

_Here_

Sherlock and John remained silent. When they reached their destination, they found Mycroft sitting in the living room, enjoying a drinkwhile reading. His assistant stood near the window.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock. Dr. Watson." Mycroft returned, waving the two to sit in chairs nearby while observing John's current demeanour. "How are you feeling, John? No doubt it is superficial."

John looked at Mycroft in surprise. "How did you...," he trailed off, knowing it was a stupid question to ask of either Holmes brother. "Never mind."

"She's missing," Sherlock stated.

"Is she now...," Mycroft trailed off.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother. "How long has she been employed?"

Mycroft crossed one leg over the other, tilting his head back as if to recall. "Oh, at least four years now, I suppose."

John sat quietly. Looking back and forth between the brothers, he was completely confused. The two seemed to know exactly what they were talking about, but he had not the slightest.

"Did you bother to vet her?" Sherlock asked, an obvious edge to his voice.

Mycroft looked at him in mild amusement. "My, my...are we showing a bit of a temper? She _has _hit too close to home though, hasn't she?" he asked, glancing at John.

Sherlock's jaw muscles appeared to tighten. His body language gave every indication that he was attempting to control an outburst.

"Sherlock, if _you _knew...," Mycroft trailed off, opening his arms as if in surrender, eyes darting towards John.

Guilt flashed in Sherlock's eyes. He stared down at the floor, trying to distance himself, to regain the advantage. "You owe an explanation, to _him_."

"I owe _nothing_," Mycroft said in a more serious tone. "But I'm feeling congenial." He looked over at John. "I'm afraid I must explain that Careen is an agent, correction, _was_ an agent of mine. You know her intimately as Emma."

John stared at Mycroft for a moment, the words sinking in. Finally, he shook his head, blinked, then squinted, confused. "P-pardon, did you say Emma? An agent?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said in a patronizing tone. "She was hired-"

"_Blackmailed_," Sherlock corrected. "Your agent, Henson, implied as much."

With a sigh and an eye roll, Mycroft corrected, "Fine. _Blackmailed_ into serving as a watcher of Sherlock's actions."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, shooting a look of displeasure at his brother. Mycroft ignored him.

"She had been monitoring him, and eventually you, for approximately the past four years. She had been given certain restrictions, of course."

"My girlfriend. We are talking about Emma?" John could not believe what he was hearing. He glanced over at Sherlock in disbelief. The woman he had become intimately involved with was Mycroft's agent. The very same woman had kidnapped and shot him. "H-how much, exactly, did she monitor?"

Mycroft smirked, intuiting John's discomfort. "I assure you, she left more...uh, _intimate_ details out."

John breathed a small sigh of relief. Suddenly, he grew angry as he turned to face Mycroft. "You _knew_! You knew when we spoke on the phone and you didn't bother to tell me!"

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who had remained silent.

"You knew as well? For how long?" John stood, his fists clenched and face growing a light shade of red.

"John, sit down," Sherlock said quietly.

"What? No!" he snapped. "How long, Sherlock?"

"I had my suspicions...at the coffee shop," he replied.

"Last week?" John demanded.

"No. Back in May," he replied.

"When we first met?" John shouted. "Unbelievable. If you knew-" he began pacing about the room.

"I _knew _nothing!" Sherlock snapped. "I had suspicions, nothing confirmed. She is a master at dialect. I had originally deduced she was a transplant from Auckland to Yorkshire, though there was a hint of something else. Perfect pitch?"

Mycroft nodded. "One of a few reasons why I employed her. She is not a citizen."

Sherlock scoffed. "Where, then? America?"

Mycroft shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned, "She has quite the talent for voices and did not make herself obvious. The agent following her, however, did." His eyes flickered over at his brother.

Mycroft shifted, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. "Henson. Not the best at blending, but definitely the best at making _my _point to her." He gave a weak smile.

"Obviously not, considering his current state," Sherlock smirked. "Unable to control your dog?"

"Dead then? I assumed as much, as I had not heard from him in over twenty-four hours. Pity. I rather liked Henson's...enthusiasm for controlling Careen." Mycroft cleared his throat and pursed his lips slightly in annoyance. "Careen changed agendas. We had an agreement, to which she did not hold up her end. Therefore, she was to be terminated from my employment."

"She's slipped out of your grasp, Mycroft. You set her on me, on John, who nearly lost his life, and now you cannot control her. Am I to clean up your mess?" Sherlock sat back in his chair.

"This is unbelievable. Are you two finished? This is my girlfriend we are talking about. Emma, Careen, whoever she is, I...I..." John continued pacing, looking away from the brothers. He knew they would have no understanding of the emotional turmoil he was now going through.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. The tone in Mycroft's voice was so commanding, it caused him to stop in his tracks.

"She was hired- _blackmailed_, to watch Sherlock. My brother has a history of..._troublesome_ behaviour," Mycroft began to explain.

"We've been over this, Mycroft. It wasn't _my_ fault. _I _didn't upset her, Da-" Sherlock answered in anger.

Mycroft, raising a hand, interrupting. "Emma, _Careen_, was initially caught in some _unsavory_ behaviour. She has a lengthy history of minor crimes. Her name changed at each encounter with the law. Yet, despite being caught, she always managed to talk her way out of any..._consequences_," he mused. "This time, however, she was caught tapping into government monitoring systems and databases. Offered the choice of jail time versus watching, she chose the latter. Emma Herrington is the longest she's remained in character."

"In character?" John asked incredulously.

"She's a sociopath," Sherlock stated.

"What?" John asked, hoping for a more clear explanation.

"John, Careen is a true sociopath, capable of appearing normal, calm and educated. Yet, within she is incapable of emotional connections. My brother _knew _this," he answered.

John sat, mouth gaping. Sherlock's words echoed in his mind. _Incapable of emotional connections._ "She was never...," he could not form the words to ask. In fact, he was afraid to hear, but already knew the answer.

"No," Sherlock confirmed.

Mycroft waited until John appeared to understand. "Careen is a sociopath. And, I'm afraid to say, highly intelligent and skilled. She has extensive knowledge in the medical field, her 'love' as it were is in research. In her mind, the mission had changed from monitoring Sherlock to experimenting with him. Initially, I had thought her to be a perfect match for my brother, though now alarmingly so. I believe you, brother, have become _her_ puzzle."

_A perfect match? _John thought, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him in comprehension. "There is _no_ attraction," he answered, his brow furrowed. "What could possibly have given you that idea?"

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. "I, uh...in the cab...you looked...I just tho-," he realised he was obviously wrong.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What? Did I look 'troubled'? Had it occurred to you that she might be a rather dangerous woman. A woman that my friend has been seeing intimately?"

This was the first time that he had ever heard Sherlock refer to him in such a caring manner. He sat, mouth open in surprise. _He actually gives a-_

"Well, this is rather touching...," Mycroft said, interrupting John's thoughts. "...but shall we address the issue at hand? Careen is missing in action and one of my agents is dead. At this moment, she most likely is seeking a new...sponsor. She needs to be located quickly, without further trouble."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You know the type. Lack of remorse, repressed rage, sees you as a target or opportunity." Then continuing, more for John's sake than for Sherlock's, Mycroft rattled, "Pathological liar, manipulative, can show love though feigned, domineering and promiscuous."

At the last few words, John flushed with embarrassment. He felt as if Mycroft was speaking specifically to his recent encounters with Emma. He wished he would wake up from what felt like a horrible nightmare.

Standing, Mycroft swung his coat over his arm. His assistant had already moved to the door and was waiting. Sherlock stood close to his brother, "Full support."

"Absolutely," his brother replied.

"No interference," Sherlock continued.

"None whatsoever," Mycroft answered.

With a quick nod from Sherlock, Mycroft walked past him and out, his assistant close behind. Hearing the quiet click of the door, John stood, seemingly unable to move. In the course of a few minutes, he had gone from concerned and in love, to depressed and in danger. _How could I have been so blind? And she lied to me! This is all a misunderstanding, isn't it? She really did lie to me! Sherlock was right. God help me, he was right about all of it._

After Mycroft left, John and Sherlock sat, deep in thought, neither saying a word. While Sherlock was formulating a plan for locating and capturing Careen, John was rehashing old memories and self-deprecating at the thought of having trusted such an individual. The unbidden thoughts of how close he had been with her continued to push towards the front of his mind, unrelenting.

"How could I have not known?!" he burst out, unaware initially that he had said the words aloud.

Sherlock was slowly roused from his thoughts to see his friend distraught. "John, you didn't know. You were too close."

John groaned, burying his head in his hands. "I _should_ have seen it. She was so sweet, almost innocent until we would... I mean each time she invited me to her flat, she was different. Every time, _every time_ she would take control. Why did I not realise that? Was I that desperate for se-," he stopped short, embarrassed at the thought.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You never told me this."

John scoffed, almost into laughter. "Never told- of course I didn't! We don't, I mean _men_ don't talk about...at least not with you. You wouldn't...I...," he was frustrated. "Stop looking at me like that," he grumbled.

"Sorry." Sherlock retreated back into his thoughts.

Like lightning, John sat up, a thought hitting him hard. "Did, uh...did Emma, I mean, Careen...did _she_ kill the agent?"

Remaining still, Sherlock asked quietly, "Do you truly want to know the answer?"

"No. Well, yes...I...," he sat back in his chair. "I already know the answer, I think," he sighed.

"John, Emma does not exist for you anymore. Careen is our target. _She_ is the enemy. We need to stop her before she harms anyone else." He jumped up.

John stood slowly at first, thinking about what his friend just said. _He's right. Emma is gone, _he thought sadly. "Alright, so what's the plan?"

Sherlock gave a grin, satisfied to see John had pulled himself together. Taking out Henson's black book, he leafed through a few pages. "The agent had searched her flat, but came up empty handed. I suspect she has a 'nest' of sorts."

"A nest." John repeated.

"If she has been monitoring for so long, she must have a command central, as it were. A place to keep records, photos, and so on." He reached the door. "Shall we?"

As they were walking downstairs, John asked, "Sherlock, when did you discover Mycroft's involvement, that the man was an agent, that Em...Careen was an agent?"

Sherlock slowed as he reached the last step, but continued outside. "Stop."

"What? No. I need to know," John said, bordering on pleading. He noticed his friend's shoulders visibly slumped. Though he could not see his face, he imagined Sherlock's brow was furrowed as he weighed his words carefully. When Sherlock finally responded, John had to step closer to hear.

"I should have warned...," Sherlock started to say, but cut off quickly.

Stepping around to face him, John looked directly at Sherlock. "You actually blame _yourself _for all of this? For her?" John asked incredulously. Sherlock would not meet his eyes, but the answer was clear. "Amazing."

"What?" Sherlock grumbled.

"You _are_ human after all," he continued with a grin, hoping to lighten the mood.

Sherlock returned a smirk. His voice rising to its usual level of confidence, he replied, "You'll be fine, John. You _will _recover and, no doubt, find another woman to love."


	10. Chapter 10

As the sun set, Lestrade waited outside of Emma's flat on Balcombe Street. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he was staring at the ground as if deep in thought. The slam of the cab door roused him from this state. He smiled, seeing John following behind Sherlock.

"Good to see you're up and about, John. Feeling okay?" Lestrade asked.

The doctor nodded. "Yeah. A bit worn, but alright. Thanks."

Sherlock ignored the exchange, diving straight into the investigating. "Ballistics?" he asked the inspector.

"Need anything, let me know," Lestrade finished with John before addressing Sherlock. "Yeah, I've got the report. Says the bullet fired in her flat was from your revolver. The ballistics match. Care to explain?"

"No fingerprints, no evidence other than it had been recently fired," Sherlock commented.

"No evidence other than matching the slug to the revolver," Lestrade answered.

"It wasn't a question," Sherlock replied shortly.

Lestrade sighed. He was not in the mood for Sherlock's quirks. Not today. "Right then. I'll be going," he said threateningly as he turned and began to walk away.

"Wait," Sherlock called out.

Lestrade paused, glancing over at John. John looked uncomfortable and could only offer a shrug.

"Yeah?" the inspector responded.

"I need to see the flat again," Sherlock stated flatly.

"You aren't going to find anything new since the last time you looked, Sherlock," Lestrade said in a weary tone.

Sherlock looked at John to ensure he was paying attention. He then asked Lestrade, "When was the shot fired?"

"Witnesses say the night of June 27th. Since it was one shot, most assumed it was a car backfiring or something and did nothing," the inspector said with a shrug. "Not surprising. The way these homes have been built, they tend to block most street sounds. Doesn't seem to add much to the case."

"You have my revolver," Sherlock stated as if it were enough of an explanation.

Lestrade grinned. "Shouldn't have had it anyway. No papers."

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and eye roll.

John stood, watching the two as one would watch a tennis match. Finally, he spoke up, "Why the interest in the shot?"

"A single shot was fired." Sherlock said quietly. "A few nights prior to the kidnapping."

"The night Emma was attacked?" Lestrade asked.

"John had spoken with her no more than a few hours before arriving at her flat," Sherlock explained.

"Yeah..." Lestrade suddenly froze. Sherlock glanced up, noting the silence. He observed as the realisation set into the inspector's face. "If the shot was fired two nights prior and the gun was back in your flat by the next night, she was the one that fired it. What's her motive?"

With another sigh, Sherlock looked over at the inspector as if it pained him to explain. "Emma, aka Careen, was an agent of...sorts. She's gone rogue. In order to do so, she faked the kidnapping, killed an agent and used my revolver to cause an inconvenience to me-"

"First of all, it isn't always about you, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock gave him a level look.

Lestrade returned it with a stern one, his eyes darting in John's direction. A look of disbelief crossed his features, "Second, you're telling me that this Careen is an agent? Who's agent?"

"M-," John started.

Sherlock immediately interrupted. "The government's." He gave a steady look to John while continuing, "We were not immediately aware of her involvement."

Lestrade followed the detective's line of sight. "Sorry, John. I had no idea," he offered.

"Yeah, well. That makes two of us," John answered, shooting an annoyed look at Sherlock.

Growing serious, Lestrade asked, "You are linking her with the homicide. What is it you need?"

"Time, in her flat," Sherlock said simply.

"Alright. A few hours, that's it. I will accompany you and you will fill me in on everything. And I do me everything," Lestrade replied. "I'll be hung if this ever gets out."

"Hanged," Sherlock corrected.

Lestrade just looked at him.

"Right, then. Shall we?" John interrupted, knowing this would not end well if continued.

* * *

><p>The small, lightless room was cool, kept that way by a compact AC unit. Despite this, the air smelled of dust and moth balls. Hidden away within the darkness, there was a faint hum of electronics. Subtle clicks and whines gave evidence of a hard drive as data was recorded and stored. The soft computer noises increased slightly, the hard drive had been accessed. Through remote means, recorded data was transferred to several locations. Unseen by the human eye, thousands of bytes of data would stream through the air, across streets and buildings, when the time was right. For now, it would remain, waiting.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock led the way up the stairs to Emma's flat, followed closely by Lestrade who listened as the detective brought him up to speed. John fell in behind, though moving slower than the others. The voices of the two ahead sounded muffled, distant even as his thoughts were pulled inward. He was not looking forward to revisiting his girlfriend's flat. Correction: Ex-girlfriend, he thought to himself mournfully. John understood what had happened, Careen had lied to him. Still, he could not help feel a pang of sadness at the ending of their relationship. He had been falling in love with her. With Emma, he again corrected himself. When John finally finished his short bout of depression, he was surprised to find himself inside the flat.<p>

"Look for anything out of the ordinary. Books that may look especially worn or even brand new, objects on the walls that may appear to project out farther than typical, no matter how ridiculous it may seem, check it. Lestrade-check this room, John-her bedroom. I'll be in the kitchen," his friend said rapidly before disappearing.

John was left standing alone in the living room. Snap out of it! he screamed in his mind. He knew he needed to break away from any emotional connection with Emma; otherwise, he ran the risk of being manipulated yet again. He frowned. His shoulders slumped, he straggled into her bedroom, stopping just inside the door. The reminders of the failed relationship churned in his mind. He fought to ignore them, but images continued to flash before his eyes. In an effort to gain control, he pushed what hurt he felt to feed the anger now rising. She used me!

He stepped into the room and began his search as instructed. The first thing he noticed was the mirror which faced opposite the foot of the bed. Though it did not appear to be any larger or protrude any further from the wall, there was something about the surface that gave him pause. He ran his fingers along the edge, hoping to find a button that would reveal a secret hideaway. When he thought at last he found what he was looking for, he pushed. Nothing happened. With a frown, he leaned in close, inspecting the side of the mirror. As he placed his hand on the reflective surface for balance, a chime sounded. He stepped back, hands up as if in surrender. What he saw was the illuminated panel on the lower right corner of the mirror with a touch pad to enter a passcode. John had opened his mouth to announce his discovery when he heard his name.

"John!" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

John practically dragged his feet as he walked into the kitchen. When he looked up, Sherlock's face held a stern expression.

"Need I remind you-" Sherlock began.

"No," John said firmly. He and Sherlock stared at one another for a few seconds. The tension was palpable.

"John, she-" Sherlock tried again.

"Stop," John interrupted, warning in his tone. "I have no interest in receiving a lecture from a man who knows very little about women, or love, for that matter. If you'd care to give me a lecture on computers, that I can take. But relationships? With people? No. Not now, Sherlock."

"Hey, Sherlock. Have a look at what-" Lestrade stopped short, having entered the room, an old book in hand. He gave a pained look, noticing the exchange between the doctor and the detective. He slid to one side where the dismantled remains of a coffee maker littered the counter and one fully functional router's led lights blinked silently.

Sherlock paused and, for a moment, John was afraid that he may have gone too far and hurt his friend. He was about to apologise for his behaviour, when he noticed the slight smile that began to spread across the detective's face. John closed his eyes in frustration.

"You...you weren't going to lecture me, were you?" John realised with a heavy sigh.

"No," Sherlock said quietly.

Rubbing his eyes, John looked at his friend and said with a bit more impatience than intended, "Well?"

"The entire flat is it. Brilliant. And hidden in plain sight," he cried out. "We found it!"

"What, exactly?" John said in a weary tone.

"What we've come looking for! Her nest," Sherlock replied with a soft hiss.

John's head jerked up. The way his friend responded sounded so much like Careen, it startled him. Sherlock saw the look on John's face.

"Problem?" he asked.

"No, none. H-her nest, you say? What, that?" John pointed to the mirror, or more specifically the keypad currently illuminated, similar to the one he had found in the bedroom. He hoped Sherlock would drop any further questioning. "Huh. I've looked into this mirror, or actually the one in her bedroom, countless of times. I never realised. A smart mirror. They're nearly three thousand pounds each. How could she possibly afford- wait. Mycroft? Do you think this is from his, uh, funding?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered holding out a scrap of paper.

John took the proffered note from his friend's hand and read it aloud:

To The Great Infallible Sherlock,

Since you are struggling with this case and having difficulty locating me, it must be frustrating. I realise you desperately need help, so I've left a modest amount of evidence, though it is anything but. I believe John will find some of it quite...stimulating. The clues are on the tablet, if you can find it. I certainly won't make it that easy. This should help your massive intellect.

Give my love to John.

-Careen

Lestrade cleared his throat, attracting Sherlock's attention and handing him a dusty book. The detective turn it over in his hands, then opened it to reveal a small tablet. John reread the note, unaware of his increasing grip crushing the paper. He glanced over at the notepad sized device currently in the detective's hands. In the lower corner, a notice popped up, indicating wireless access was available. Sherlock tapped the screen, which flashed a warning: passcode required.

"So she can browse the Internet. I don't see how that can be construed as a nest," John grumbled, a hint of criticism in his voice.

Sherlock watched his friend for a moment. "You've noticed the peculiar mirrors about the flat? Rather large in size, more so than necessary. Additionally, the depth of the frame, approximately four inches, seems disproportionate to the typical one inch deep framed wall mirror. Plus, the line to the AC-DC adaptor was a dead giveaway." He smirked.

Without another word, he removed his mobile phone from his coat pocket and proceeded to thumb through his contacts. A few seconds later, he had selected one. As the phone began to dial, Sherlock passed by John and out the flat. John stood in the kitchen, wondering if he was taking too many liberties with their friendship.

* * *

><p>An hour later, there came a knock at the door. When John opened the door, his eyes widened surprised at seeing a boy, especially one who looked barely twenty. He faltered in his words, narrowing his eyes at the sight before him. The young man had a toothy grin on his face. His unkempt hair, loose fitted jeans and wrinkled hoodie gave the impression he had just gotten out of bed. John glanced down at his watch: 10:00 p.m. He looked back up and noticed the boy was looking past him.<p>

"Mr. 'olmes!" the young man called out while he examined John from head to foot.

"Dex, come in, come in," the detective answered from the kitchen.

John followed the boy. His eyes darted from his friend to this new arrival, who was shown the tablet. Sherlock began pointing out various portions of what he had discovered while waiting.

"Be aware, she may have left us traps, as it were. I don't want to lose any data. Understood?"

After a few seconds, the young man gave a nod in understand. "Give me some time, eh? I'll 'ave it cracked for ya, Mr. 'olmes," he answered with a huge smile on his face.

The detective stood and left the room, taking John along with him. "Best to leave him to his work. No distractions."

Lestrade stood by the window facing the street. Every few minutes, he would turn to look about the room. His eyes would catch the doctor's and both would give a quick but polite smile before turning their attentions elsewhere.

John sat down on the couch that had been left in disarray. He fidgeted in his seat, watching as Sherlock paced about the room. The sight of his friend's energy made him especially anxious. "Sherlock," he began to ask. From the lack of acknowledgement, he thought for a moment he was being ignored.

Finally, Sherlock's pacing stopped. "Hmm?"

"Do you think-, I mean, this kid-" he tried to ask.

"Dex has proven himself of value more than once. He will succeed, allowing me full access to the device."

"What if he finds-that is to say, what if there are-" John growled in frustration.

Sherlock paused to watch his friend. Finally, he replied, "Dex will look at nothing, I assure you." He resumed his pacing, thoughts inward.

John gave a weak nod and sat back on the couch. The next few hours passed by slowly. He took in a deep breath and slowly released it through his teeth. His leg began to shake. He smoothed his hands down his thighs, then sat back again, arms folded. His leg began to shake again.

"Mr. 'olmes?" Dex shouted. He looked over his shoulder as both the detective and the doctor entered the room. "Looks like she's 'acked local wireless. Mind if I 'ave a look up top?"

The detective gave a wave of his hand and Dex was off in a sprint. John could hear him bound the stairs, two at a time.

The boy returned a few minutes later. "Mr. 'olmes." the teenager said. "Found a wireless access point, device and drive, was 'idden in the attic. As for that file 'ere, I can 'ave it cracked in no time, provided you, uh..."

"You will be paid, handsomely," came Sherlock's terse reply.

Dex connected a cable between his laptop and the tablet. His fingers flew over the keys, opening programs and streaming data down various screens. A few hours into his work, sweat began to bead above his brow. His eyes darted back and forth between the devices. As he keyed in a code, a smile began to creep over his lips. The smaller device flashed in warning. His smile faded to a grimace. He stood abruptly and paced the room. Returning to his chair, he gripped its back and glared down at the piece of equipment. He glanced in the detective's direction, but Sherlock was not there. Taking in a breath, Dex held it for a moment and closed his eyes. Slowly releasing the air, he reopened them and sat back down. Dex resumed his work, this time his fingers flew over the keys with increasing speed. Thirty minutes later, he had success hacking through the security. He was planning on exploring the files, but was taken a bit by surprise when the detective rushed into the kitchen.

"Finished?"

Dex gave a nod. "It's like a remote. Controls the other's in the flat. They are versions of this one. See here?" With a push and slide of his finger, the kitchen mirror came to life. What was seen on the small device was on the larger one hung on the wall.

"And the router, the hard drive being accessed? Any way to trace it to a specific area?"

"Such as...?" The hacker looked at him for more information.

"A more permanent location."

The boy frowned for a moment. "No, sir. I mean, well, it's possible, but it would take considerable more time and resources. Sometimes, yeah. But in this case, sounds like you gots a tricky one. If I wanta avoid trace, I'd use additional routers or log in remotely into a virtual desktop through another server."

"Thank you, that will be all. I may contact you later," Sherlock said, slapping money in the palm of the boy's hand. He turned his attention towards the newly hacked tablet, making it painfully obvious that Dex's services were no longer required. Dex gathered his things. With head down and heavy sigh, he quietly left the flat.

Sherlock's eyes focused on the accessible files. The room immediately fell silent. Even as John and Lestrade hovered over his shoulder, the detective seemed not to notice. A note from an electronic journal flashed onto the screen:

May 7th: Met Dr. John Watson for the first time. What a gentleman! Not bad on the eyes either. I do hope this will work, as I find myself falling for him.

Holmes approached me today, told me to back off. There was something in his eyes. Very disturbing. I don't trust him. I fear for John's safety. Holmes is a psychopath...correction, sociopath.

"So, you did speak to her, then?" John asked. "...was that when you suspected...in May?"

"You knew she was an agent and didn't say a word?" Lestrade questioned.

"It is obviously a fake, meant for John's eyes," Sherlock mused. "Hold on."

"So, what. You're planning on reading her journal?" John smirked.

Sherlock looked at John askance. "Don't be ridiculous. Her psychotic ramblings don't interest me. What I am interested in is her current target." He returned to his search of computer files.

Sliding his long slender finger over the screen, he sent a stream of pictures spinning across his view. John, who had remained silent up to this point, leaned forward to watch Sherlock's progress in the hopes to gain some insight into the woman he had grown so fond of. As the photos slowed from their spin, he was able to make out images of his dates with Emma.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked more to himself than the detective. "If she was with me, who was taking the photographs?"

"Who, indeed?" the detective answered as he continued to peruse the files.

Lestrade chimed in, "These photos must have been taken from government surveillance."

"Obviously," the detective said. "And this here, appears to be from a smaller device, most likely a wireless camera. But the photos in this folder are of higher quality, no doubt taken with a high powered lens. Since she is not present in these, I would deduce she was behind the camera. What concerns me are the most recent pict-"

John gasped and, on instinct, quickly yanked the tablet from Sherlock's hand. "John...," Sherlock said with an unusual amount of patience.

John opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. His fierce heart broke when his eyes fell on the compromising photos. He continued to shake his head in disbelief.

"John...I'm not looking at the photographs. I'm merely looking for clues to where she might be now," Sherlock answered John's unspoken question.

"I...," John faltered. "Pictures of us, of me. Intimate pictures! Clues might be in other files that you can look at. Any but these!" he snapped. He was more angry with himself for having fallen into this predicament than at Sherlock for viewing the files.

Sherlock expelled a frustrated sigh. "I don't care about the actual images. I'm not looking at you. I'm looking everywhere else. Do you see? There," he pointed to a slip of paper in one of the pictures. "And here," he again pointed to another. "Looks to me she was planning for the airport. Now, if you don't mind...," he tried to reclaim the tablet but John would not let go.

"This searching is pointless. She knew you'd find the tablet." A look of frustration crossed John's features.

"Astute observation, John," Sherlock said with a hint of pride in his voice. "She's trying to insult me, to bait me into following."

"So, then, we don't follow her?" John said, confusion replacing frustration.

"Of course we will!" the detective answered.

"She's done this on purpose," John continued to argue. He did not want his best friend to see how in love and vulnerable he had been. "That will give her the advantage, knowing that we are coming for her."

Sherlock tugged on the tablet, but still John would not release it. "I know, John" he said gently.

"She's humiliated me," John growled.

"John. I know," Sherlock answered in a more serious tone.

John looked up at him briefly. He gave a quick nod and relinquished the device to Sherlock. He was struggling still with the loss of his relationship and felt violated by the very woman he had come to trust. While Sherlock reviewed every file, John walked about the room.

"She knew we would return to her flat. She set it up for us to see," Sherlock explained. John gasped but continued to stare at a video now playing on the tablet. "She's trying to manipulate you, John. To make you doubt everyone, so you will still believe in her. Don't be fooled."

"Of course not," John said, but could not take his eyes off of the screen.

"There." The detective paused the video and pointed to a small set of papers jutting out of her bag. Sherlock passed the notebook over.

While the doctor was pouring over the files, the voices of the detective and inspector were barely audible behind him. John sat down at the table, squinting for a better look. "I...I don't see how this can help us. I can't even read it," he commented. Noticing a file dated June 26th at 7:13 am, he swept his finger over the screen and selected a file. His eyes watched the familiar scene play out. The night Emma was attacked. Supposedly attacked, he again corrected himself. He felt he was never going to make sense of the change from Emma to Careen. He groaned internally. It was bad enough the tablet held still photographs, but to have video as well. It was almost too much for him to handle.

"Tonight?" she asked

"Yes," John replied. "Without me," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, Emma. Sherlock believes that if I were with him, I might help in catching this guy."

She shook her head.

"Emma, I promise I will not be far from you. I will not let anything happen to you." John took her hand in his. "I love you."

Slowly, a smile crept over her lips. "I love you, too, John." she replied.

As John wrapped his arms around her in a comforting embrace, she grinned broadly and mouthed at the camera 'He's mine'.

He groaned, then shouted loudly, "She had said she loved me!"

The detective stood in silence.

"Right. Well, I've placed a call in. Security is canvassing the airport as we speak. Time's up, gentleman. Shall we?" Lestrade said, waving his hand towards the door.

"Sherlock," John's voice grew serious. He had inadvertently opened a document containing notes and a few pictures. Though many of them were of the two of them, a few of the more recent ones were of Mycroft. "Her next target?"

Sherlock took hold of the tablet. His eyes darted back and forth while his fingers pushed and slid items on the screen. Shoving the device back into his friend's hands, he spun on his heels, leaving the flat in a hurry. Staring at what looked to be confirmation of an airline ticket purchase, it took John a few additional seconds to realise Sherlock had left. Dropping the tablet on the table, he sped down the stairs, barely remembering to slam the door shut.


	11. Chapter 11

John stepped out of the building onto the pavement. Though he could hear Sherlock, he had difficulty processing the words. The world seemed in a spin, leaving him with a dull mind and heavy heart. He inhaled audibly and was refreshed. The crisp early morning air snapped his mind into full alert.

While speaking into his mobile phone, Sherlock hailed a cab. "Mycroft. She's at Heathrow, Terminal 5." In silence he paced. "I realise that." Another pause. "I am aware of that as well! I need full cooperation from airport security." He waited. "Thank you." Ending the call, he shoved the mobile into his pocket.

The cab skidded to a halt in front of them. Sherlock jerked the door open and dove inside. John scrambled in after him, wincing with sudden pain from the gunshot wound Careen had given him. He shoved a handful of pound notes through the partition. The money was pocketed in the blink of an eye.

"George, Heathrow. Terminal 5," Sherlock ordered.

"Right-o, Mr. Holmes."

The cabbie grinned, then stomped the pedal to the floor, jolting the passengers back in their seats. The car raced, its engine roaring. It swerved right, then left. The tires squealed in protest, passing a slower car. The cabbie remained silent, focused on the road. A loud horn blared as they blew through a stoplight. John's head whipped around to see the other driver make an angry "V" sign. He turned back and caught Sherlock smirking. In the rear view mirror, George's face was split with a toothy grin.

"How do you know?" John asked. "Terminal 5, I mean."

Sherlock looked at him askance. "She's American. Her perfect pitch led me to believe she was from Auckland, yet there was something..." His voiced trailed off. "Her identity exposed, the government hot on her trail, she needs a means of escape. Terminal 5 offers transatlantic flights. That and...she left me a note stating where she'd be waiting," he grumbled.

"It'll take us at least thirty minutes, if not more with traffic," John noted.

Sherlock laughed and gestured towards the drive. "He's a transplant, from Germany."

George laid on the horn as he sped through a junction, narrowly missing another car. Buildings and trees blurred as they passed by. The small vehicle whipped around lanes, at times driving up pavement. With the cab's violent movements, John clutched at the door in an attempt to remain in his seat. Though not typically sensitive, the car ride was turning John's stomach. Sherlock, however, seemed unaffected by the centrifugal force.

The cab shot out of a tunnel and over a pedestrian crossing. John tensed as a businessman jumped back, knocking a woman and child to the ground. Turn upon turn, they continued on the M4 towards Heathrow. What would have been a thirty minute drive turned out to be less than fifteen. George hauled on the steering wheel sending the car into a sideways skid that stopped when it met the curb outside the terminal. He looked back with a proud grin.

"Thank you, George! I'll be in touch!" the detective shouted as he leapt from the cab and ran towards the entrance.

John followed on his heels. Once inside, he paused, heart pounding fiercely. His hand pressed against his wounded side. He noticed Sherlock's chest heaving rapidly, his eyes sparkling with life. Sherlock was in his element.

A group of uniformed officers jogged to meet them at the entrance. "Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?"

"Gentleman," Sherlock gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

The head of security stepped in, blocking his path. "Sir, we have been briefed on the situation. Where shall we start looking?"

The detective answered crossly, "Looking? What I need from you is complete cooperation. You can accomplish this task by simply staying out-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted sharply.

Holmes regarded his friend coolly. "Fine." He addressed the officers. "Canvass the area. Look for a Caucasian woman in her early to mid thirties, eight stones thirteen, approximately five feet seven, average build. Brown hair, though this could easily have changed. She has gone by the names Emma Herrington and Careen; however, I suspect she has a new one by now. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat. More than likely armed." He looked back at John. "Happy?"

The doctor smiled, "Yes."

The head of security nodded and turned to the men behind him. In quick murmurs, orders were given. The group took off running. Reminiscent of a game of pool, the officers broke, each running in different directions. Exits were blocked, ticket counters and baggage claims were searched, and entrances to Heathrow's pods, buses and shuttles between terminals were closed temporarily. Passengers, unaware of the situation, began to complain, their voices rising as the delay increased.

Sherlock was moving to the lift when John grasped his arm and pointed. The two men observed what looked like Careen. She had her mobile phone in hand, umbrella tucked under her arm.

"She's being followed," Sherlock stated, nodding towards a man in a black suit.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John murmured. He was surprised by Mycroft's involvement but grateful for it as he had been allowed to bring his firearm into the airport.

The dark suited stranger accosted the woman in green. Startled at first, she straightened, tensed for action. The man said something to her. In response, she shook her head sharply. He grabbed her arm. Despite his towering nearly a foot taller than her, she glared furiously and stomped hard on the instep of his foot with her high heel. Grimacing in sudden pain, the man released her and staggered back a step. Moving quickly, she followed, closing so that there was no space left between them, her umbrella inexplicably jamming into his gut. The color drained from the man's face, though his expression seemed stonily calm. His hands were raised slightly from his sides, a sign of surrender. From John's viewpoint, it looked as though she were grinning. But from the man's reaction, she must have been delivering unpleasant news. With his eyes locked on hers, the man shook his head, worry lines furrowing his brow. Careen pushed closer. He winced, shying away from the small umbrella. Careen said something else, then spun on her heel and stormed off. After a moment the man resumed his pursuit, now with a limp.

Sherlock's mobile phone rang. _Follow her_, he mouthed, as he answered it. John took off in the woman's direction at a brisk pace.

"Oh, I _had_ hoped to speak with John," said the familiar feminine voice in feigned disappointment.

"Careen," Sherlock answered with a raised eyebrow. "You hoped John would answer _my_ mobile?" he asked sardonically.

There was a brief pause before she responded. "What reaction do you desire from me, Sherlock? Kudos? Bravo? You figured out who I am and my true name. At least, the name your brother knows me by." She chuckled softly. "I'm aware you've spoken to Mycroft, so addressing me as Careen is really no surprise. Does that disappoint you?"

Sherlock's muscles tensed. His eyes darted towards John, who had not reached her yet. He clenched his free hand into a fist.

"Come now, is this how you are going to act, considering _all_ we've been through? All of the fun we've had?" she asked, the grin on her face evident in the silky sound of her voice. In a whisper, she continued, "I _know_ you've enjoyed it. Like me, you grow bored often. So, you're welcome for keeping you busy. I must say, most of the company you keep is quite easily fooled. Especially the interim inspector." She imitated the Superintendent's voice.

"You are correct. I have grown tired," he said with an undercurrent of hostility. "...of you. I told John from the very beginning. You. Are. _Dull_."

Sherlock watched as the doctor quickened his steps. The dark-suited man seemed to fall back the closer John moved to Careen. A group of people pushed by. His path interrupted, John lost sight of Careen for a moment. He darted left, then right as he tried to peer through the crowd. Finally, he was able to move around and continue on.

"Poor John, how is he holding up? He must be in pieces," she said as if lost in thought.

Sherlock did not rise to the bait.

"You don't believe me? Interesting," Careen mused. "You, such an intelligent man, should understand the fragility of the human mind."

Sherlock shook his head, about to argue.

"I know. John is _different_. He is a soldier, first and foremost," she agreed with the unstated point. "He is also a man. A man who is driven by the same motivating factor that most men are driven to fight for, and quite often suffer for."

"He is not that simple."

"True. He has skills that I was pleasantly surprised to discover." She laughed wickedly. "Regardless, it will take him some time to recover. Just enough damage done to cause an inconvenience for him and more of an irritant for you. How does it feel, knowing someone was so close to him? I could easily have disposed of him."

Sherlock scoffed. "John? Not likely. He is stronger, _smarter_."

"Stronger, I'll grant you. But smarter? Let's not _lie_."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Her laughter had a musical ring to it. "Oh Sherlock, such wit!"

He did not respond.

Careen sighed deeply. "Tell me, Sherlock, are you interested in a face-to-face meeting?"

"Yes, where?" he asked, stalling until John could catch up to her.

She sniggered. "Sherlock, aren't you cute. You honestly will not find me unless I _allow_ you to."

"Your confidence will be your downfall," he said plainly.

She laughed. "Do you even hear yourself? Your confidence has nearly been yours _and_ that of your friends. I can easily predict that it will be in your future, though perhaps not by my hand. And if you haven't deduced it yet, the woman John is following. _That. _Isn't. Me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John had reached out and grabbed the arm of the woman he was following. He spun her around to face him. It was not Careen, but a woman roughly the same build and in a similar green dress. Her expression changed from surprise to confusion and finally to indignation. The detective recognized the woman's words, "Excuse me!" John turned back towards him, bewildered.

Sherlock tensed. "Enough. Turn yourself in."

"Sorry, but you and I both know that isn't going to happen. I have plans I haven't yet finished. Plans that involve your brother. Along the way, I have enjoyed exploring your mind, your psyche, to understand what drives you, what factors alter your decision and thought processes."

"Who is your sponsor?"

"Oh, I am going it solo. Though I do have one who is currently pursuing me, or at least thinks he is. Not interested at the moment." There was a click as she ended the call.

John eyes fell back to his friend. Sherlock's attention caused the doctor to follow his line of sight to the dark suited man. He gave a nod and broke away. His intent was to approach the agent for assistance, but instead the man took one look at John, turned and walked away. The doctor picked up his pace.

Sherlock watched until John was out of sight. Then, veering off, he headed up the escalator, taking two steps at a time. By the mezzanine railing, he scanned the people milling about the lower level. A brunette woman wearing a green dress and high heels gracefully slipped between passersby. Sitting down on a bench within the indoor park, she casually crossed her legs, leaned back and sipped at the coffee cup in her hand. Sherlock spun on his heel and headed down. He crossed the park, approaching his target from behind. As he drew close, Careen turned an ear towards him, setting her coffee down

"Sherlock Holmes. I expected you sooner," she stated. "Especially when I left you clues to my location."

"Careen," he answered back.

"But where's John? I had so hoped to-"

"What do you want?" he interrupted, stepping around the bench to face her directly.

"What is it I want? Why, it's what I'm sure everyone wants, Sherlock. To prove that the so called 'great' consulting detective is not infallible. Given the right circumstances, even _you_ can be fooled," she answered.

"I've never claim-" he began, but this time he was interrupted by her laughter.

"_You've_ never claimed to be superior? Let me see..." She paused, then continued, imitating Sherlock's inflection and tone, "Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring_. You were thinking. It's annoying. Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." She chuckled.

He clenched his jaw. She had been doing more than just simple monitoring of the flat. She had managed to overhear at least one conversation at a crime scene. Eyes unfocused, his mind raced for the connection. Two possibilities came to mind: she had disguised herself as an officer, possibly the blonde who had questioned John, or someone could have been bugged. Her motivation and determination puzzled him.

"Speechless? Brilliant! That _is_ a first for you. I'm honored. Truly," she said sweetly. "I'm sure you're dying to continue your observations and deductions." Discarding her coffee cup, she stood slowly with arms slightly spread in surrender. Her compact umbrella remained on the bench, minus the handle.

The detective met her challenge. "It's over."

Careen smiled menacingly. "Far from it."

She closed the space between them with a single smooth stride, her body nearly pressing against his. Sherlock could feel the tip of a small knife pushing into him, just below his ribs. For an instant, he stared down at her from his height. Then he grabbed hold of her wrist. A crowd of tourists chose that moment to walk through the indoor park. Some smiled at the embracing couple, while others looked away either in embarrassment or indifference. As people pushed past, Careen subtly strained to pull her arm away from Sherlock's strong grip. But the more she struggled, the more vice-like his hold became until his fingernails dug into her flesh. She clenched her jaw in a forced smile, softly hissing through her teeth as she exerted herself.

"You can't win, Careen," he said in a low tone, answering the defiance in her eyes.

He gave her one final squeeze and a sharp twist of the wrist. She winced. With a pained whimper, she dropped the blade on the floor. He kicked it under the bench out of sight. Her eyes darted back and forth with a wild expression. Sherlock gave her a look of self satisfaction. He had won.

The moment was shattered by an older man and woman. "Pardon me. You look like such a lovely couple. Would you mind taking a picture of us?" the woman asked. Her husband reddened with embarrassment for the interruption.

The detective looked disbelieving at the couple and offered a brief, if pained, smile. His prisoner took advantage of the momentary distraction. Yanking her arm from his grasp, she kicked his ankle and slammed her fist into his solar plexus. On release, she bolted. Careen shoved past one traveler. Hurdling over a row of seats, she squeezed through throngs of passengers. Using her momentum, she slammed into a group of flight attendants, sending one into the other like a row of dominoes. Careen grinned, glancing back at the chaos awaiting the detective. She turned to find a trash bin in her path, stumbled over the obstacle and fell to the floor. With a growl of impatience, she scurried back to her feet and darted down the terminal.

After a quick recovery, Sherlock turned in hot pursuit leaving the old woman gawking and her husband shaking his head. Down Terminal 5, they ran. Travelers were roughly pushed aside. Some were knocked down. Others shouted indignantly. Careen had kicked off her heels and sprinted across the floor. She yanked at a man's rolling carry-on and hurled it in the detective's path. She collided with a businessman. Tearing the laptop off his shoulder, she flung it to the ground. She flew past people, but as she turned a corner, she slipped in her stocking feet.

Sherlock narrowly avoided the carry on. He swerved past confused passengers as they gaped at the racing figures. The detective crashed into the businessman who had been recovering his laptop, sending them both sprawling. With a muffled curse, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his coat tails flapping wildly. He accelerated in his chase, gaining on her.

His arm was outstretched reaching for her when a large mob of families, couples and businessmen entered the terminal. His pursuit was interrupted. Parents struggled to maintain control of unruly children and luggage. Pilots and flight attendants were busy chatting, unaware of the chase. Careen narrowly slipped by, leaving Sherlock to force his way through. When he finally made it to a less crowded area, she was gone. He slowed, his chest heaving as he regained control. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialed.

* * *

><p>While attempting to contact the dark-suited agent, John realised he had lost Sherlock in the process. He knew, though, catching the agent meant he would be one step closer to finding Careen. He gritted his teeth, anger rising at the thought. Never again would he allow himself to be so vulnerable.<p>

His shoulder knocked into a man, jarring John out of his mood altering thoughts and back into the present. His eyes darted around spotting the man in the dark suit. He quickened his steps. Once he caught up to the agent, he stepped in the man's path. There was a menacing glint in John's eyes. "Tell me where she is," he demanded.

"Pardon me, I believe you have the wrong bloke," the man said gruffly as he glared down. His face was worn, showing old scars and a broken nose that had healed at an odd angle.

"I haven't time for this," John growled. "I don't know what game you're playing, but one phone call to your employer and you're through."

"Who?" the man asked in feigned confusion. Sweat beaded above his brow. His breathing quickened. He shook his head.

"Mycroft," John bluffed, dialing the number.

The man stopped his protest and visibly relaxed.

The sudden change caused John to look at the man. "Your employer is Mycroft, isn't it?" he asked with some uncertainty.

"See here now, I'm looking for the woman, same as you. I saw her head down a corridor."

"Let's go," John commanded nodding in Sherlock's direction. The man complied. At that moment, John's mobile began to ring. He answered it and heard a breathless Sherlock say, "She's headed your way." Passengers, security and flight personnel passed by as Johnlistened. Pocketing the phone, he looked back to discover the agent was gone.

"Looks like I don't need you after all," he murmured ironically and took off at a sprint.

The man had carefully slipped away. The phone and people had served as a sufficient distraction to remain hidden this time. As John ran off, he followed a discrete distance behind.

Turning the corner, John froze. Not more than three meters away was Careen. The slender brunette slipped through an entrance marked "Employees Only". John's mouth pressed into a hard line. He followed with quick strides to the door. Unholstering his gun, he held it ready. With three measured breaths, he whipped open the door, stepped inside and paused. He could hear the light patter of footsteps. The corridor, littered with shelves and boxes, was cast in a green hue. Fluorescent lights flickered from above. In the distance, a heavy metal door slammed shut. A muffled cry echoed in the enclosed space. He bolted towards the sound, stopping just short of the door. A sign on it read "Baggage Tunnel".

Bracing himself, John turned the handle and yanked open the door. He found a security guard lying unconscious. Her holster was empty. John bent down and checked her pulse. She was alive.

John quickly texted Sherlock. _Headed below terminal. Baggage tunnel._

Stepping over her, he descended a stairway leading into a large service tunnel beneath the terminal. Fluorescents illuminated tram lines running along the cylindrical concrete tube. He paused for a moment and held his breath. He felt a current of air drifting through. Closing his eyes briefly, he willed his heart to slow. Concentrating on his senses, he detected Careen's familiar scent and the faint footfalls of her stocking feet. His eyes opened. He knew exactly where she was headed. His hunt began. John could not see her ahead, but knew she was there. Now, he was more determined than ever to end this.

* * *

><p>A short buzz and Sherlock glanced down to read John's text. With a smug look, he picked up his pace, running to the terminal's north side. Security met him near the end.<p>

"Sir?" a stout man inquired.

"She's underground," Sherlock answered. As his mind started to formulate a plan, the man interrupted.

"In the service tunnel? How did she get past-"

"Quiet! I need to think!" Sherlock snapped.

Turning his back on the man, the detective began to murmur. The men nearby exchanged curious glances. They thought he was praying. Sherlock's breathing slowed. Images of the flat and the streets of London whizzed by. The airport halted in front of him. His mind's eye scanned the map, moving to Terminal 5. Slowly, he forced the picture to rise above him, exposing the underground. Mentally he spun the layout around until he could see down the tunnel, looking east. Zooming ahead, he found the adjacent section was Terminal 3.

"Terminal 3, lower level exit for the tunnel," he blurted out. He took in a sharp breath, his eyes bright with excitement. "We have her!"

Sherlock bolted through the exit doors. Pilots, baggage handlers and aircraft mechanics gawked at the slender man bounding down the tarmac. What looked like nearly the entire airport security force followed closely on his heels. The lead officer spoke rapidly into his radio, shouting about a fugitive and terminal junctions. The airport staff exchanged worried glances among themselves as the group of men disappeared in the maze of service equipment and aircraft.

Twenty two minutes passed. Alone, Sherlock reached the tunnel's opening. The security team, unable to keep up, had abandoned the race. The detective inhaled deeply. With impatience, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. With aching muscles, he paced.

Ten minutes later a horn echoed from the tunnel. Sherlock peered in and caught sight of a tram with luggage. The driver's face was bright red. He was shouting into a walkie about people in the service tunnel. Within minutes, both vehicle and man had disappeared up onto the main road. Five minutes later, the detective noted a slender shadow bouncing on the wall, growing larger. He stepped away and hid to the side. His ears picked up her steps. He waited.

Careen jogged into the open. Sherlock darted out, wrapped an arm around her neck, and pulled her into a choke hold. Careen drove a hard elbow into his stomach. He winced, but did not let go. She spun, wrenching from his hold. Sherlock sent a sweeping kick to her knees eliciting a surprised, pained cry. He lunged, his fist flying at her face. She dodged, her hand catching his wrist. His momentum and her expertise sent Sherlock flying over Careen's hip. She pounded him into the concrete, driving the air from his lungs. Careen dropped onto his chest, forcing more breath out. In a flash, her gun was in her hand, muzzle pressed to his temple.

"Don't move," she hissed.

Sherlock stared at her in calm defiance.

"I'm done with you, Sherlock. It's time you moved on as well." She glared down at him. "But I see from your eyes you will not." She clenched her teeth and pressed the gun harder into his skin. "Goodbye, Sherlo-"

_Whack!_

John struck the base of her skull with a satisfying crack. Careen cried out and fell, the back of her head slamming into the ground. His foot crushed her wrist to the pavement. Careen struggled. John shifted more weight onto her trapped wrist. There was a pop. She shrieked and released her gun. He kicked the weapon towards Sherlock. She flailed, about to escape. John's gun collided with her face. Blood sprayed from her mouth. Her head dropped back, a trickle of blood trailed down her cheek and dripped into her hair. Her eyes closed and opened as unconsciousness tried to claim her. Her grinned was streaked with red.

"I won't stop, John," she said hoarsely.

"Enough!" John shouted. "You. You! We trusted you. _I _trusted you. You've betrayed me. You have a lot to answer for."

She snickered.

"Stop it!" he yelled. He dropped onto her chest, his knees pinning her arms to the pavement. His fingers grasped her throat, while he pressed the gun to her forehead. The sight of faint marks on his wrist from the kidnapping fueled John's rage. He growled. "No more." Panting with wild eyes, his fingers clenched tighter.

Careen gasped for air. Her body arched. She thrashed to free an arm. Her hair splayed across face. She clawed at him. He ignored it. Through strands of hair, her eyes opened wide in realisation and horror. John was going to kill her. She attempted to grasp his throat, but he straightened and her fingertips slipped from his neck. Her heels beat the pavement. She strained to throw him off. He remained immoveable.

"John!" Sherlock called.

Using more pressure, John squeezed. He sneered as Careen struggled. Her lips, now purple, opened in a yawn. She thrashed frantically, but couldn't escape. He did not let go. His palm pressed even harder on her trachea.

John felt a light pressure on his shoulder. "John," his friend said softly.

The touch caused him to expel the breath he held. Slowly he peeled his fingers from her throat. Careen coughed and gasped for air, spitting out a wad of phlegm. The imprint of John's hand was a livid mark upon her fair skin. His shoulders visibly relaxed. Standing up, John continued to train the weapon on her, his breathing harsh but his hand steady. For a moment Careen stared at him, then she rolled to her side and cradled her broken wrist. She made no attempt to stand.

Soon after, airport security arrived. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles danced along the terminals and concrete structures. Both detective and doctor were led to an ambulance for assessment and treatment. Sherlock's vehement protests were largely ignored. In contrast, John said only enough to answer questions by the authorities or medical personnel. Otherwise, he remained reflective.

Careen's right wrist had been hastily splinted. She was surrounded by armed officers, her left wrist handcuffed to the gurney she sat on. After her evaluation, medics released her into police custody.

Careen's eyes fixed on John. He could feel her stare. Once she was moved to the police vehicle, he looked up. Their eyes locked. The last thing he saw was a smirk on her face. A suited agent pushed Careen down into the back seat. He nodded to them before entering the car and driving away. John watched the taillights of the car disappearing. A nagging feeling crept into his thoughts.

"Well, gentleman. It would appear your work is done," stated a familiar voice from behind. "Though I do believe this isn't the last we've seen of Careen. No doubt she'll be on the streets within the week." He sighed as if a great weight lay on his chest.

John turned to see Mycroft approaching, lips pressed into a slight grimace, his female assistant following closely behind. John nodded to her and was met with a blank stare. Giving a faint huff of indignation, he turned to address Mycroft. His hands involuntarily tightened into fists. "You're kidding. With all that she's done? Government tampering...killing an agent...kidnapping? And y-you don't think she'll stay locked up...for life?" he asked incredulously.

"She has a sponsor," Sherlock said in a subdued voice.

"Precisely," the disappointment evident in his brother's tone.

"So increase security. Make damn sure she never sees the light of day!" John snapped, the blanket once wrapped around his shoulders fell to the ground.

The Holmes brothers exchanged glances before facing John. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked at his brother. He addressed John, "It isn't that simple, I'm afraid. This individual has connections, high ones at that. There are many who can be bought, for the right price."

Sherlock continued, "In order to find the sponsor, we must allow Careen to escape."

John's mouth gaped open. "Unbelievable. All of this has been an incredible, horrible nightmare. And after all I've been through, that's it? Oh well, she goes free!" He paced frantically.

"John," Sherlock interrupted. John met his eyes. His friend's concern was apparent in his face and tone of voice.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Right then. If you two are ready, I have a car waiting to take you back to your flat." He turned to his assistant, murmuring instructions.

As they strode towards their ride, John stole a glance at his friend. The corners of Sherlock's mouth were nearly turned upward. "What," John said knowingly.

"Hmm?"

John sighed. "Really? I know that look."

"What look?" came the innocent reply.

"The one you're giving me right now," John growled back, more from exhaustion than annoyance.

"I'm not giving you a look," Sherlock insisted.

John expelled a long sigh before responding. "Fine. Well, whatever it is, I've seen it many times before. What are you so smug about?"

"I know who he is," he answered with chilling undertones.

"What? The sponsor? How could you possibly know-," John stopped talking, took in a breath and then rephrased his words. "Alright then. Who? Who is her sponsor?"

Sherlock paused before entering the car. He grinned, a hint of wicked delight sparked in his eyes. "Moriarty."


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you to all who have made it to the very end. I never thought writing Sherlock would be a possibility for me. It certainly has been challenging and fun!**

**IMPORTANT NOTE: Stutley Constable has been tough yet kind in assisting me with this story. Without his help, I would have never made it to the end. I am very grateful. And a special thank you to Mrs. Pencil and Jack63kids.**

**And now the final chapter...**

* * *

><p><strong><em>John Watson's Blog<em>**

_July 25, 2011_

_Once again, I find myself adjusting to life. Where do I even begin?_

_Much has happened since my last entry. We've solved a lot of cases. Well, Sherlock actually. But I did have a hand in._

_The Geek Interpreter. The Speckled Blonde. Like a machine, he's been at it. Case after case. Never phased by any of it. His social graces still haven't improved, but on occasion I do catch him trying. For my benefit, perhaps?_

_Regardless, all of that pales in comparison to what I've had to endure. I thought everything was fine when all hell broke loose. We were duped. Yes, even Sherlock was mislead, though not nearly as long as the rest of us. I still can't believe it. I feel like a fool. I wish I had been more careful, more observant. He claims he knew from the very beginning, but I have my doubts, even in him._

_I can't believe I'm saying that! All of this has caused me to doubt even my best friend. If I can't trust him, how can I possibly trust anyone again? Right._

_Sod this._

**_Comment_**

_Don't be so hard on yourself, John. Coffee?_

_Mike Stamford_

_Sounds good. I'll give you a ring._

_John_

_This post is verging on poetry. All hell broke loose. You're referencing Milton now?_

_SH_

_Should I bring up Auckland?_

_John_

_Perfect pitch._

_SH_

_Too much for your high intellect?_

_John_

_**Comments have been disabled**_

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><p>The sun was high, shining brightly over the small yet elegant garden courtyard. A slight breeze offered little comfort to those sitting or wandering about in the heat. The gazebo, benches and greenery offered the illusion of freedom, though not one prisoner was fooled. Most gathered in small cliques, each stealing glances in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Holloway's highest profile prisoner. Word had spread fast enough, she was the only woman to have initially bested Sherlock Holmes over a three month span.<p>

After a moment, Careen began to pace the length of her cell at Her Majesty's Prison Holloway. Her room was modest with a bed, writing desk, and chair. Her lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes shifted, but remained downcast. Scrapes and bruises on the side of her head were fading, her split lip having healed. Careen cradled her broken wrist, the metal confines of an external fixation device framing the mending injury. According to the prison physician, she wouldn't be free of the contraption for at least another four or six weeks. The steel served to remind her of just how far she had pushed the 'good' doctor.

Through the bars of the window, Careen glanced out and sighed. Her reputation had served to protect her, but also to limit her to solitary confinement. The manager of the prison staff specifically instructed that no prisoner would be allowed close enough to communicate with her. But at one time there was a miscommunication between the switching guards. Another prisoner by the name of June Massey had been placed in a holding cell alongside Careen for half a day. The two made little conversation and shortly thereafter the oversight was corrected and the women were separated to their respective cells. A week later, Careen had leaned of June's illness and sudden death.

_I need to play the part. Go along with this charade_, she thought, the muscles in her lower jaw flexing. _But once its over, I'm out and he's dead._

The jingling of keys announced the approaching guard, snapping Careen into full alert. She stopped near the courtyard scene, but her eyes remained fixed on the door. Her face, once holding a frown and furrowed brow, appeared to be wiped clean of any emotion. A blank slate, she waited.

A small panel slid aside in the door, revealing the face of Kathy, the guard assigned to her cell during the day shift. Kathy Williams was a no nonsense woman who had come to learn of Careen's exploits thanks to an embellished memorandum and gossip among the prison staff. And for that alone, security around her was tighter than for any other in Holloway. Careen suspected it was Mycroft's doing, another way to rub in the fact that he 'won'. She clenched her hand at the thought. _I let them win._

"How are we doing today, Careen?" Kathy asked, though her tone was anything but caring. Her expression gave warning. The prisoner would do best to comply or suffer the consequences.

Careen's eyes flickered, nearly challenging Kathy. _It's not worth it. Play along like a good girl._ There was silence for a few seconds before she forced out, "We are well." in a tone mimicking that of her guard.

"Good girl." Kathy's forced smile broadened. "_Behave_."

Kathy unlocked the cell door. Two male guards, wearing body armor and face shields, entered first and took up position on either side and slightly ahead. They provided a barrier of protection. Standing with body shields, they remained pensive, as if expecting Careen to strike at any moment. Kathy followed, along with two other guards close behind her.

_How easy it would be. One quick move, slit a throat, snap a neck and I'd be free._ Careen looked at them from below her brow, but said nothing. Her eyes darted to the other two female guards standing behind near the doorway. There was a sour look on Kathy's face when Careen's attention finally returned to her.

"You know the drill," Kathy said matter-of-factly.

Careen nodded, extending her hands forward. With a near wicked smile hinting at her lips, Kathy slowly shook her head. Knowing she had no alternative but to relinquish control, Careen turned around and placed her hands behind her, the movement of her splint causing her to wince. Kathy fastened the restraints, successfully snaking it through the brace and around the mending wrist. The feel of the cold metal caused Careen's mind to recall her time with John._ I miss him._ A faint smile played on Careen's lips.

Kathy wrapped a restraint belt around Careen's waist, attaching a chain to the middle of the handcuffs. As the other guards stood ready, she knelt down and secured ankle cuffs. One long chain ran up the length of Careen's legs until it met with the restraint belt.

"Turn around," Kathy growled.

Careen did as she was told.

Taking a position behind Careen, Kathy firmly grabbed her elbow. "Let's go."

The entourage of guards escorted Careen down the hallway, taking the stairs and exiting toward the courtyard. The murmurings of the prisoners seemed to hush as she was walked through. Careen held her head high, her eyes scanning over every face she passed. Outside windows were barred, plexiglass separated them from guard stations. Security cameras swiveled and seemed to follow as she passed by. While waiting for the final door to be unlocked, Careen stared at the last camera up in the corner. She was tempted to flip off the staff monitoring from the other end, but managed to resist the urge. The only evidence of this was a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Within minutes, they had arrived at the outer gate. Kathy nodded and one of the female guards took her place by Careen's side. Kathy then stepped aside to confer with another guard. After a nod, she returned to Careen.

"We'll be seeing you," Kathy said with mocking smile.

Careen nodded and forced herself to look at the ground. She knew she was being monitored, even outside. Every eye was on her, watching her actions and reactions. One eye roll would be enough for Mycroft to justify skipping her 'trial'. She scoffed internally._ Trial, Mr. Holmes? What a farce._

Kathy transferred her charge over to a male guard, part of the escort unit assigned to transport Careen to the courthouse. Her restraints were adjusted so that her hands would be in front. Her eyes narrowed. Rogers, she thought. The last time she was taken to the courthouse, Rogers had nearly pushed her too far. But just as her temper was about to flare, she realised he was doing so to force her into assaulting him. _Yet another one of Mycroft's stooges._

The walk from the prison gate to the white, unmarked van was a quiet one. Any eye contact Rogers made with Careen showed indifference. He took her by the elbow, holding her back as two guards hopped inside and sat in the back seat. Once they were settled, he pushed her inside the vehicle, directing her to the middle seat. As the two guards watched from behind, Rogers secured her restraints to the floor of the van, deterring any ideas of escape, and seat belted her. Backing out, he slammed the door shut. Waving on an additional guard, whom he called Jerry, the two piled inside. Jerry, unlike Rogers, was dressed in a finely tailored black suit, his eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses. Careen noticed the familiar bulge of a Glock, more than likely a G18, what most of Mycroft's agents seemed to favor. She did not need Sherlock Holmes to deduce who he was working for.

The van, with Rogers, Jerry, prisoner and two additional guards in tow, was on its way. During the ride, Careen observed and listened. Most of the trip, Rogers complained about the recent football match. Jerry remained silent, only offering an occasional tolerant smile, though to Careen at times it looked more like a grimace. At one point, they received a call, she deduced, from someone at the courts. She watched as Rogers listened to the one-sided conversation, his eyes flickered towards her in the mirror.

"Yes, sir," Rogers said finally before ending the call. Addressing her he stated, "Looks like you've got an appointment with a headshrinker at The Old Bailey. Bet I could save that lot a bit of time. You're mental." He sniggered before returning to their previous subject.

_That may be my ticket out of this hell hole. I'll be remembering your face, Rogers._

The suited man turned and watched her, his expression unreadable. He stared at her for a good minute before lowering his sunglasses and giving a subtle wink. With a faint hint of a smile, he returned his attention ahead. His smartphone in hand, he typed in a message that she could not read.

She was confused. Careen's expression turned to a narrow gaze as she stared at him. _He isn't one of Mycroft's._ After a few seconds she looked out her window, biting at the lower corner of her lip. Finally taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and forced the rising panic back down. Forty minutes passed before they reached the Central Criminal Court.

Rogers seemed to avoid her, allowing the other guard to unlock and roughly pull her from the van. Jerry stepped forward, gripping her elbow tightly. He guided her into the building stopping her at the first security checkpoint. Jerry stepped aside to allow the guard on post to begin the wand search followed by a pat down.

During the process, Careen took in her surroundings. _Security cameras covering all areas. Great. At least two security checkpoints, five guards at front. Expected. I can work with this. But Jerry, he's a wild card. I need to shake him soon._

"She's clear," the woman said after finishing the required search.

Jerry nudged Careen in the back, spurring her beyond security into the foyer. Rogers stepped ahead and glanced back at Jerry. "You got this? I gotta take a leak."

"Yeah, mate. Go on," Jerry nodded.

She watched Rogers briskly walk away. As soon as he was out of sight, Jerry gripped Careen's arm at the elbow and tugged her in the opposite direction. "Let's go."

Careen suspected a setup. During the van ride, Jerry's actions, the wink, the slight smile, all were uncharacteristic of Mycroft's minions. The question was: who was his employer?

He escorted Careen down a short hallway. That's when it occurred to her, none of the cameras had power and there were no other guards. Glancing back towards the security checkpoint, she caught his eye. Jerry had no intention of taking her to the courtroom. What she was unsure of was if she were being lead to something far worse than Mycroft's trial. Her initial excitement gave way to apprehension and she had to force her legs to continue the walk. She resolved to remain compliant for the time being. This unexpected detour had thrown her off kilter. His steps on the marble tiled floor seemed to hammer louder in her ears. With each click of the heel, her mind whirled with possible escape plans.

Jerry stopped her in front of a wooden door and rapped on it.

"Come in," called a male voice from within.

Jerry opened the door and stood to the side. Careen looked at the guard. He gave no eye contact, no sign indicating why she was here or what to expect. She scanned the room. There was a cherry wood conference table, surrounded by plush office chairs. One man sat to the right, leaning back almost in a reclining position in his chair. Dressed in a plain shirt and jeans, he adjusted his small, rounded glasses. His sandy, blonde hair had an unkempt look to it. In total, his appearance reminded her of a typical Southern California boy. _He isn't working for Mycroft_, she noted with some growing apprehension.

He stood, pushing his chair away from the table. "Careen, glad you could join me. Please, sit."

Careen slowly headed for a chair on the left side of the table, immediately opposite the stranger. She heard the familiar click of heels as the guard turned and left. The young man gently closed the door and returned to his seat.

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she replied, at which he sat back down.

"Careen. My name is Doctor Aaron Declan. I am the court appointed psychiatrist here to evaluate your mental capacity prior to arraignment," he explained. After a brief pause he added, "May I call you Careen?"

She remained silent. _He's no psychiatrist, more like..._

Careen looked at him, starting with his hair, working her way down his face. When he removed his glasses to clean them, she noted his pupils constrict. The eyeglasses were real and he did require them to see far distances. He suffered from a lack of sleep, seen in the subtle discoloration under his eyes. His nose was slightly reddened, compared to his overall completion, indicating a cold or allergy. The skin on his lips was torn from biting, no doubt due to excessive nervousness. This fact, Careen confirmed, with a glance at his fingernails, most of which had been whittled down. She noted the fingers were stained brown, possibly from silver nitrate. The callous between the index and middle finger, along with yellow stained cuticles indicated he was an excessive smoker. As she took a longer look at his eyes, Doctor Declan gave a fleeting smile. His confidence was a facade.

Reaching down by his right side, he retrieved a case file and opened it up in front of him. A minute went by as he perused papers. Finally, he looked up.

"Look, I realise you don't trust me. I get that. Let me start by saying I know a great deal about you," he said.

She did not respond.

"Allow me. I've gotta admit, you've done an impressive job. Tapping into government security systems. Monitoring devices in several apartments. Posing as police officers. Kidnapping an ex-military officer, and all under the watchful eye of the world's, supposedly, greatest living consulting detective," he listed.

At the last comment, Careen scoffed. The phrase struck a nerve. The doctor's eyes seemed to brighten. She stiffened in response.

"Relax, Careen. We share similar opinions on the Holmes brothers." With one swift move, Declan had walked around the table, released her uninjured hand from the restraints and returned to his seat. "To be honest, I'm not here to go over your mental status. I'm also not here to discuss the detective. I totally understand he humiliated you, they both did. And Mycroft? He-"

"Used me," she interrupted quietly.

"Right, exactly! And now that he's done with you, I can bet you'll get a speedy and unfair trial with a lifetime sentence. Lucky for you there isn't a death penalty. It's crazy, you know? All of it is a waste of time, if you ask me. So, let me cut to the chase. I've come to offer you employment. I scratch your back, you'll scratch mine sort of deal. Join me and you'll achieve the revenge I know you really want." He turned the file and pushed it to her.

When she made no sign of interest, Declan continued. "Tell me about June."

"I was busy in June." Careen looked about the room, as if bored.

He chuckled. "Well, yes you were. But we both know I wasn't referring to the month. Your cellmate."

"She's dead."

"That's right. Some fever took her in less than twenty four hours. And that was after a week of knowing you." Declan paused, ensuring he had her full attention. "Mycroft certainly doesn't waste any time."

Careen's posture straightened. Her penetrating blue eyes bore down on him, yet she remained silent. _What's his game?_

"She ends up in the hospital ward with "fever" and then dies a day later? An illness that infected no one else? The report said you knew nothing, but I don't buy it. Mycroft can't risk your influence over other prisoners. June's contact with you was a mistake by the prison, one he corrected quickly. Do you think he'll ever let up on monitoring you at Holloway? He won't. He underestimated you, just as his brother had, but he won't be caught making that mistake twice. June's death was easy for him to cover up. And if you were to become too much of a liability, you know exactly what he's capable of. But of course he wouldn't do it personally. He'd send down one of his lackeys. And that's the sad thing, isn't it? Your death would be quiet and uneventful. No one would ever know. And worst of all, you'd never get the chance to challenge him again."

Her expression showed the rage churning within. Despite her initial impression of Declan, he seemed well informed. Looking inside the file, she found pictures of herself, often taken through windows from outside. In each image, she found herself following Sherlock, placing monitoring devices in various flats, tasering John and one of her heated arguments with Henson, Mycroft's agent. These people had been watching her for some time.

He spoke in a nonchalant tone, "Do you get it now? Enter my service or, well, take your chances out there." He leaned back in his chair. Taking out his smartphone, he worked in silence and in no immediate hurry for her answer.

Her gaze narrowed on the picture at the Neasdon Lane flat. Whoever this man was, whoever he was working for, they knew about Agent Henson. Glancing up at Declan, she saw the confidence, the power he attempted to hold over her. She continued through the file until she reached the last page, the one that revealed her true identity. Careen's eyes darted from page to page. He had nearly everything on her. When she looked back up, Declan was staring at her.

"I can see I have your attention now. Here," he had another folder that he slid towards her.

She immediately opened the file. More pictures were attached on the left, images of what looked like research facilities. Her brow creased. At the back of the file, Careen found several security badges. The one on top was to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia. Each badge had her face, though the names were different. She stifled a gasp of surprise.

He chuckled briefly. "We all hate our badge picture. Almost as bad as on a driver's license."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I told you, Doctor Aaron Declan," he answered simply.

"You aren't a psychiatrist," she stated flatly.

He laughed. "No, I'm not. But I am a doctor. More specifically, I'm a virologist. Oh, I've dabbled in genetics, but virology is my passion. A single virus can take down even the strongest of men. It has the potential to cripple world organizations. It is power." His face lit up with excitement.

"So what's the plan?" She asked, pushing the file back to Declan.

Declan grinned. "Ah, can't reveal too many secrets, it being our first date and all. My main point here is that I need someone like you, someone well versed in breaching security systems. Your technical and medical knowledge will benefit me greatly."

She sat back. "What's in it for me?"

"Millions, for starters. If this business arrangement works out, even more."

"Before I accept any terms of service, I want to meet my employer," she replied.

There was a flicker in Declan's eyes. "What are you talking about? I'm the man you'll be working for," he answered. Careen could detect a hint of fear.

"No, you're not. You're his representative, a mere lab rat in this game," she answered in terse response. "If he wants me, he'll need to meet with me personally. Otherwise our business here is concluded and I have a trial to attend." She stood.

Declan's forehead glistened as a sheen of sweat formed. He followed suit and stood. His head cocked to one side, he looked away from Careen for a moment. Silence settled between them. Giving a nod, he looked back at her and replied, "A car, 'round back, will take you to her. But first, you'll need to change your attire." He pulled back the chair next to him, revealing a neatly folded woman's business suit.

* * *

><p>John flopped into his chair. He ran a hand down his face and expelled a sigh. It had been a long night, but finally he was home. Leaning his head back, he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, drifting off for what felt to be a brief moment before the sounds of rummaging in the kitchen stirred him awake. Opening one eye, he could just make out the silhouetted figure of his friend. He closed it again, relishing the darkness if only for a little longer.<p>

The clatter of tea cups on a tray startled John. He bolted up, blinking away the fog on his eyes. _How long have I been out?_ he thought as he rubbed his sore neck.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked with cup in hand.

John nodded. "Yeah, thanks." He took the proffered cup.

Leaning forwards, he placed his elbows on his thighs. John took long sips. His eyes became unfocused while he stared ahead. His posture slouched, on occasion he push out a heavy sigh. Sherlock sat on the sofa. He remained quiet, sipping his tea. A pendulum clock ticked. John could hear his friend's fingers tapping randomly on the porcelain cup. Water from the kitchen tap dripped. He gritted his teeth, irritated. The wait to hear back about Careen's trial was driving him crazy. Sherlock's mobile started to ring. Unable to sit still any longer, John hastily set his cup down and darted out of his chair to stand by the window.

While he watched people pass along the street, he overheard Sherlock's conversation. John was only partially listening. It sounded to him as if it might be Lestrade. He looked over his shoulder for a moment. Sherlock was watching him, eyes narrowed with a frown on his lips.

John turned his back to the window and waited. He knew it was about her. _What now?_ He felt a twinge of fear that justice would not be served. He knew she was gone.

"We'll be there shortly," Sherlock said. Ending the call, he rose and went to slip his coat on.

John followed suit, taking hold of his own coat. "Careen?"

"She's gone."

John took in a sharp breath. He looked to the floor, eyes darting back and forth. After a moment, he straightened his posture and gave a nod. With a glimmer in his eye, Sherlock turned quickly and darted downstairs. John followed close behind.


End file.
